We have surely lost this war
Yet we linger on
To gather what few wits remain
And fight another dark day

We are gentleman, at least,
Killing each other
Only in the hours
Before suppertime.

When the swollen sunlight
On the distant Standing Oaks
Mimics the blooded field below
We set down our arms.

One weary lad climbs to the top of the hill
(We take turns...)
And blows a Hollow Tattoo
Calling us all away from Death,
For a while at least.