Men That March
Men that march through crooked streets,
And highways paved with stone;
Men that killed with bayonets,
Some never more came home.
There are those who pay the piper,
Some pay to call the tune;
And those who came a marching,
Sweat in sunshine’s noon.
The men are marching all in step,
When still of evening comes;
And yet the beat of marching feet,
Step time with muffled drums.
To partner with the dance of death,
Needs choose their partner well;
For dancing to that lonely tune,
Is a sorry way to hell.
War is such a random fight,
We are kin in all but name;
And all who died in foreign lands,
Never knew their blood’s the same.
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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