© 2013 (By Jim Sularz)

Let me muse a bit,
below the parapet.
And bask awhile,
in the sun and grit.
That I should ****,
or be killed instead?
Come my battle cry . . .
“Fix bayonets!”

. . . Dare I charge headlong,
beyond this pit?
Through War’s slaughterhouse,
past the blood and spit.
Do as I’m told,
without regret?
As I plunge over . . .
my epitaph.