Blood red is the river,
   Sticky is the sand.
It flows along as ever,
   With death on either hand.
Bodies a-floating,
   Burdens on the foam,
Tide of war a-boating -
   Where will all come home?
On goes the Tigris
   And out past our kills,
Away down the valley,
   Away down the hills.
Away down the river,
   A hundred miles or more,
Other generations
   Shall bring that tide ashore.

                    (Apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson)