BY PHILIP HOLMES
The fog covered ground
Rising up to meet my feet
As I slowly pound
Going slowly, slowly for a meet
As the sun crests the mound
I go to the beat
The beating of the ground
But as I march on trampling the ground
And the fog drifts away
I no longer feel the pounding
The pounding drifts away
And now I see a sea of men going with the beating
Shiny sticks of death in the air
As they march proudly
Marching proudly as the trumpets blare
We march off singing the songs of war aloud
And now with malice we face the enemy and glare
The boys will never sing proudly as they lay
on the ground screaming aloud
And I will never see my beautiful Claire
As we lie on the ground staring without seeing
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