Born to sour temperament and political policy,
Weakness gleamed in tremor's slight,
To pale to be of Grecian ilk,
Thank Gods no country side in sight.
Now seven years the barracks beckons,
My Mother's pride sent to the stake,
Twenty three years for the pain in me,
No time for us soldiers to be fake.
Wonders of becoming that horrid equal,
A wife to take but no house to live,
Those whips a dear and cutting friend,
No muscle ever the chance to give.
Now thirty years we slot in perfectly,
So time again now doubled in blue robe,
Strong through beatings beautiful brutality,
We never Athenian but of Spartan abode.