When the fights begin,
The soldiers standing stiff like tin,
They to each other cut and sway,
Bloodying the light of day,
And if the fight should ever end,
The broken soldiers will not mend.

Thus, a soldier, I,
Was sent out one morning to die.
Good for me, my death was soon,
On that same day, at just past noon,
Caused by my slowly ailing health:
I’d quickly stabbed myself.


© 2001 Matt Everett