The spring of '39 and I sit idle in the fields.
The young men who should have been working with me now line up for my sergeant.
Children are weary of me — the novelty of rushing to the Anderson shelter dug in the yard has gone, but soon the bombs will start falling. Then they will know it is not me, and wish it was.
Later as the dark clouds of war roll over the world, women take the place of men working in factories for the first time. With me they are producing the tools of war.
Who am I?