The stories, bulged with laugh and boast,
Repressed the dread of shadow’s ghost.
The smell of bodies burnt like toast
They likely will recall the most.
There’s little glory in a war
And how they dare to keep the score
Of bodies where the bullets tore
The loyalty they proudly wore.
The smell of urine soaking through;
The snot and spittle adding to
The fear, and yet they always knew
The killing’s what they’re trained to do.
The enemy is now in sight;
The trembling soldier knows his might.
The finger must squeeze slow and tight;
The haunting question – “Is it right”?