Fathers take sons down to the hidden lab
and strap them to the table. Start to saw
and file and stitch, and when their son's hands grab
their sleeve and pull for mercy, cut some more.
Mothers help too. It's their job to explain
why scars and bolts go in, why flattened head
prevents wrong kinds of thinking in the brain,
bad thoughts for which, she says, God strikes men dead.
Now look at George. He's what his parents made.
His father's scorn. The love of Barbara.
She came to teenage George one day and said
'This is your brother.' Showed him in a jar
her own dead foetus. Haunted, he'll ignore
all the dead children he'll kill in his war.