'Twas with a heart of leaden woe   Poor Alphonze went to war;   And though it's true he did not know   What he was fighting for,   He grieved because unto Marie   He'd been but three weeks wed:   Tough luck! Another three and he   Was listed with the dead.      Marie was free if she would fain   Another spouse to choose;   But if she dared to wed again   Her pension she would lose.   And so to mourn she did prefer,   And widow to remain,   Like many dames whose husbands were   Accounted with the slain.      Yet she was made for motherhood   With hips and belly broad,   And should have born a bonny brood   To render thanks to God.   Ah! If with valour Alphonze hadn't   Fallen in the fray,   Proud Marie would have been a glad   Great grandmother today.      Yet maybe it is just as well   She has not bred her kind;   The ranks of unemployment swell,   And flats are hard to find.   For every year the human race   Richly we see increase,   And wonder how they'll find a place ...   Well, that's the curse of Peace.      So let us hail the gods of war   With joy and jubilation,   Who favour foolish mankind for   They prune the population;   And let us thank the hungry guns   Forever belching doom,   That slaughter bloodily our sons   To give us elbow room.