The grey gloom chuckles at our cunning plans
I find the stick rather condescending;
If each crucial station, some soldier mans
Our febrile worrying may be ending!
But Horace always thinks he knows better
He thinks he can read mud like poetry
He treats me like a delinquent debtor
Who owes him meek, shuffling fealty
Damn him, taking the hill was my idea!
All of us are sick of this ugly trench
It could be that our bloody omega
Awaits above, and that makes my jaw clench
But one thing I believe I know quite well:
Horace’s stick will quickly burn in Hell!
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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