In midnight trenches, with his back to muddy
wall,
He lies rigid with black cold, pondering upon
it all,
On, the “Get up, get out, it is now your time
to fight”
Garbed in uniform of grenade, bayonet &
icy might.
Night sweats & serenades, his sad &
sorry dreams,
Where laughter of babe, replaced by bloody screams,
Where rape & pillage is foul language
upon the tongue,
Far from home, in this hell, beneath
sap-sucked sun.
Within his head he hears, the old droning of
battle song,
Asking is what he´s told to do, so very
extremely wrong?
Sent to war by millionaires & nations
with sharp swords,
Round & round, in his head, same
monotonous chords.
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