Stubs of lead
He scribbles quickly
Reinforced by the dead
Their cries muted thickly

Thoughts racing
He is forced out
The General pacing
Crying, he shouts
Quick men, to your ranks!
Flanks, flocks- marked men
Hurry now, we soon begin!

Clattering stub, you would deceive
His thoughts still on your child
The seed he planted on that eve
Will grow and mock- he’s going blind

Judging eyes, they reprimand
That well-worn, aged hand
That moulded that once young thing
How it’s grown and had its fling

He didn’t look before he leaped
And threw himself into that blessed heap
Of disfigured helmets
In avoidance of his debts