Arms And The Man
Now let the final bugle notes tune out
and they will haunt you all your life.
It was not in the fact that your father loved you with his heart
that left you sipping the field marshal's brandy,
its heat blotting out your senses
that the wolf of war ran away with the kid in you,
had you crying into your tin cup,
wishing for your mother
as you lay bleeding.
It was the fact that you never left your father
with his battle stories.
You picked up where he left off.
You too gunned for medals,