War can unite a country
But destroy a world
From the green hell of the jungle
To the harsh heat of the desert
To a burning city
War can be anywhere

In a war the dead and living come face to face
Every day can be your last
Every movement can be the END
Killed by a man you have never even met

But the one thing it creates is ….
MATESHIP
When you are out in the middle of a firefight
A man doesn’t fight for
His country
His family
Or their leaders on TV
He fight for his mates

This Great Poem WAR IS HELL Is By ADAM

I am Maxim Sheko and this was my favourite poem

This is my favorite poem because it motivates me.

A Marching Song
Air – Onward Christian Soldiers
Fellers of Australier,
Blokes an’ coves an’ coots,
Shift yer bloody carcases,
Move yer bloody boots.
Gird yer bloody loins up,
Get yer bloody gun,
Set the bloody enermy
An’ watch the blighters run.

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

Have some bloody brains be-
Neath yer bloody lids.
An’ swing a bloody sabre
Fer the missus an’ the kids.
Chuck supportin’ bloody posts,
An’ strikin’ bloody lights,
Support a bloody fam’ly an’
Strike fer yer bloody rights.

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

Joy is bloody fleetin’,
Life is bloody short.
Wot’s the use uv wastin’ it
All on bloody sport?
Hitch yer bloody tip-dray
To a bloody star.
Let yer bloody watchword be
“Australi- bloody -ar!”

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

‘0w’s the bloody nation
Goin’ to ixpand
‘Lest us bloody blokes an’ coves
Lend a bloody ‘and?
‘Eave yer bloody apathy
Down a bloody chasm;
‘Ump yer bloody burden with
Enthusi- bloody -asm.

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

W’en old mother Britain
Calls yer native land
Take a bloody rifle
In yer bloody ‘and
Keep yer bloody upper lip
Stiff as stiff kin be,
An’ speed a bloody bullet for
Post- bloody -ity.

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

W’en the bloody bugle
Sounds “Ad- bloody -vance”
Don’t be like a flock er sheep
In a bloody trance
Biff the bloody Kaiser
Where it don’t agree
Spifler- bloody -cate him
To Eternity.

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

Fellers of Australier,
Cobbers, chaps an’ mates,
Hear the bloody German
Kickin’ at the gates!
Blow the bloody bugle,
Beat the bloody drum,
Upper-cut an’ out the cow
To kingdom- bloody -come!

CHORUS:
Get a bloody move on,
Have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of
Self de-bloody-fence.

By C.J Dennis

There are many genres and instruments
In music
If you don’t like one, you can switch to another
Because there’s a huge range

In music there are melodies
They have the lovely tune
There are also harmonies
Which help create an atmosphere

Music is very religious
It can be used in church
For weddings, funerals, christenings
And on the Sunday service

Music is a team sport
You can make a lot of friends
Especially when you are together
In a rehearsal room

It can immerse you deeply
And it’s really quite a lot of fun
Especially when you are with
Your friend on Saturday afternoon

Music tells you stories
And creates images in your head
So when you listen you can have
A video inside your head

In music you express
The emotions you are feeling
When you’re feeling happy, sad or scared
You put it into music

My heart pumping
My blood rushing.
This race of 100 meters
Nervous as ever `
Drinking forever
And hoping for good weather

Waiting behind the race line
Waiting for the gun to fire
Waiting to achieve higher
Waiting for smell of victory
Waiting for the big push.

The gun click, we rush ourselves to the finish line.
Am I first? Am I going well?
Rushing then waiting for the sign.
Cheers and shouts surrounding me
As I cross the finish line. Victory was mine.

Nixon

The Tiger
By William Blake
1757-1827

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

My heart pumping
My blood rushing.
This race of 100 meters
Nervous as ever `
Drinking forever
And hoping for good weather

Waiting behind the race line
Waiting for the gun to fire
Waiting to achieve higher
Waiting for smell of victory
Waiting for the big push.

The gun click, we rush ourselves to the finish line.
Am I first? Am I going well?
Rushing then waiting for the sign.
Cheers and shouts surrounding me
As I cross the finish line. Victory was mine.