Two meals and one long night have past since last we ate hot food.
Sore and sleep deprived, we're in a fire-breathing mood.
A line of chatty fobbits and fat civilians stretches long.
In this line to chow we, warriors in a war zone, do not feel like we belong.
The mortar alarms' warbling screech fills the air.
The lanky, and the blubbery run with for bunkers, motivated by the scare.
We stand defiant, sore, and hungry in the open ground.
Tempting unlikely, unlucky death.  We ignore the sound.
The alarm shuts off.  An amplified, embarrassed voice says, "Ehh...false alarm."
Dear sweet idiot:  Thank you!  There's no harm
In clearing out the line.  We waste no time laughing and running to the front of the line.
Your inattentive idiocy almost cost lives before in this war.  But you are forgiven this time.