by David C. Bryan

They step in trance and beat the fallen drum.
The lads I loved have fallen by the score.
The carrion blast has rocked me till I’m numb
And still the battle lust has risen more.
So tune the lays that sing of glories high,
Tell glorious tales of many battles won,
Of lads not aged in years enough to die
Who march into a battle never done.
Forever turns the house of night on them
Whose bleeding breath was stopped by shot and lead;
In death their fall forever shall condemn
Those men, the charging slain, forever dead.
Memory keeps the ledger of the slain,
Who died a foot of worthless soil to gain.