their legs are marching,
their boots are marching,
their arms are straight and still;
but are marching too in time to the rhythm,
the gradient of the hill.

their tanks move in,
their medics move in,
their formations froth and swell;
but move in regardless in time to the rhythm,
ready warfare and hell.

their uniforms sweat,
their foreheads sweat,
their arms are warm and glazed;
but onwards they march in time to the rhythm,
bouncing in boots of rage.