Under the Georgian pines,
Outside a Georgian fort,
We throw our bayonets to make them stick,
Like the Downy Woodpecker on her course,
We also bayonet our feet,
And slice off blistered skin,
We hear the Tufted Titmouse peep,
Whenever we begin,
A Pewee grabs a fly,
Where those apical trunks column above,
As we stand in the chowline,
And pick the ticks off the men in front,
We can no longer smell,
Thank God,
And blend in with the clay,
If a scented woman came by,
We would worship her like the Yellow Warbler,
In this shadow glade,
Oh how we long for something sweet,
Taunted by the liquorice of Nuthatch and Chickadee,
For all our ****** meals are doused,
With the ****** juice of beats,
Now all night under the pines,
I know the Saw-Whet does not screech,
It sounds like an alarm,
Beckoning the Georgian heat,
And from on high those eyes,
Laughing at the night vision we have made,
As we stumble into our latrine,
That we didn't cover with the *****,
Oh how we miss some music,
As we endlessly gather,
We swoon all day from heatstroke,
And our gloomy cadence is mimicked by the Thrasher,
Under the Georgian yellow pines,
In the setting reddish glow,
From the color of her blue sky,
And the clay around her blue throat,
Walks a fellow Bluebird,
In official infantry color we now know.