In barracks bare of beauty,
I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife
of lifeless characters
from some Saturday charade
sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade.
I merely pull my blanket higher up
and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!"
A spot of flesh, unknown to sun, itches
so I scratch. Musty curtains run
in dusty ripples on their pulleys.
The room overflows with bullies
but I turn over in my bunk
and choose to spurn,
scratching a spot that doesn't itch.
I glance up; the light bulb top is dirty.
So I reach up, unscrew the bulb,
lay silent in my patch of dark,
and try, vainly, to extinguish
a more persistent spark.
The air around me, reeking of smoke and beer,
is heavy with the weight of discontent.
I lie still, darkly fomenting
an impotent dislike
for atmospheres like this one.
I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun,
and growl, like some ancient,
burly, and barbaric Hun.
A small important part of me I treasured dies.
Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension
using interjections "nice people" never mention.