Comrade Troop

January 5, 2011
We are walking,
Lines we form,
Sometimes we’re found running,
Out of the norm.

One of a hundred,
Marching for common demand,
We must look ahead,
Today we stand.

Sneaking in a group,
Each a brilliant soldier,
Never out of the loop,
Smell of death on each shoulder.

Our targets filled with dread,
Each one falls,
One shot to the head,
Bullet wounds round like balls.

Soldiers in bliss,
All cheerful in glory,
Cursing the dead, they hiss,
The royals’ death gory.

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