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What is this meekness? You who would not bare
Your throats to Cetagandans, and who raised
The rebel flag against Just Dorca's heir—
Whose blood-thirst makes the galaxy amazed—
Why do you fold your hands and sit content,
Counts bloodless, and the Ministers corrupt,
When fruitlessly your sons' own lives are spent?
Warmongers speak, and none dare interrupt.
"At least," you say, "we're free from civil strife."
And Grishnov's victims, though unspeaking, damn
All those who would thus barter life for life.
If this be honor, honor is a sham.
Enough with seeking glory in the stars,
A truly just war starts on Barrayar.
--
"You know," said Padma, "that would have been quite impressive if he hadn't fallen down halfway through, and mumbled the final couplet into a puddle of sick."
Rulf looked up from under the table, where he was trying to extricate Aral from a passionate embrace with a chair leg. "I think that makes it more impressive, actually."