their legs are marching,
their boots are marching,
their arms are straight and still;
but are marching too in time to the rhythm,
the gradient of the hill.
their tanks move in,
their medics move in,
their formations froth and swell;
but move in regardless in time to the rhythm,
ready warfare and hell.
their uniforms sweat,
their foreheads sweat,
their arms are warm and glazed;
but onwards they march in time to the rhythm,
bouncing in boots of rage.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
their legs are marching,
their boots are marching,
their arms are straight and still;
but are marching too in time to the rhythm,
the gradient of the hill.
their tanks move in,
their medics move in,
their formations froth and swell;
but move in regardless in time to the rhythm,
ready warfare and hell.
their uniforms sweat,
their foreheads sweat,
their arms are warm and glazed;
but onwards they march in time to the rhythm,
bouncing in boots of rage.
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