Be fearful. Since I don’t play the usual lottery, the only kind I could win is the kind that they use to draft people for fighting alien invaders.
PROMPT: Lottery
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Be fearful. Since I don’t play the usual lottery, the only kind I could win is the kind that they use to draft people for fighting alien invaders.
As nuclear weapons may yet be the death of us all, they would be a sound candidate. But I think it’s utter fantasy to think that a possible technology can be anything more than delayed. Besides, once GAI (general artificial intelligence) starts freeballing it’ll inevitably stumble onto a mode of death that makes the H-bomb look like a caveman’s campfire by comparison.
War is a Racket: The Antiwar Classic by America’s Most Decorated Soldier by Smedley D. Butler
Mastering the Art of War: Commentaries on Sun Tzu’s Classic by Zhuge Liang
Sát Thát by Lê VânFast rode the knight
With spurs, hot and reeking,
Ever waving an eager sword,
"To save my lady!"
Fast rode the knight,
And leaped from saddle to war.
Men of steel flickered and gleamed
Like riot of silver lights,
And the gold of the knight's good banner
Still waved on a castle wall.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
A horse,
Blowing, staggering, bloody thing,
Forgotten at foot of castle wall.
A horse
Dead at foot of castle wall.
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
He does not become a three-days personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
This poem opens War Is Kind and Other Lines (1899.)
Violence: A Very Short Introduction by Philip Dwyer