Do the eyes see, or does the mind perceive
What shadows creep warily upon the eve
What forgotten past horde our gainful years
What winged doom bearers rouse our darkest fears
While doubts fester in the fields of the failed legionnaire
And fallen angels flock about thy desperate prayer
Know, aback the world dreaming dragon, I'll be there
Arisen from the dust and decay of The One's, promise broken
I am all that, of which mean, "power", awoken
The wailing grief of shadows fallen where darkness dare
Cleaved in twain by the righteous sword's gleaming glare
Nigh falls the last darkling felled to the abysmal deep
Goeth now from fretful slumbers to restful sleep
For, nor even death himself may reap
thy mortal soul
Whilst I stand guardian; the sacred fold
To The Forgotten
Military history is written by the victors.
Generals and politicians who stamp
their names on the pages of books
written by men and women in ivory towers.
It is actually made by the common:
legionnaire, dog face, doughboy, airman,
seaman and marine. Most names unknown
to those that write the histories.
But every name a known part of a life story
to a mother, father, spouse or child who’ve
watched their loved ones go off to help
someone else make history.
Laurel's in heaven a girl kissed him
He's going around with a stupid grin
Hardy's jealous he wants a girlfriend
He's out of luck no money to spend.
Hardy's become a legionnaire
Uniform too tight for his fat derrière
Laurel was sent to Tanzania
'twas big mistake he caught diarrhea.
I hear the music of the night, and as the angels begin to sigh
the last ribbons of light fall loose across my path
God , vigilant illusionist of all times
as you scry the moon for me tonight, the stars
align themselves, and the Universe thrums in solvent time;
Dios, incarnate flash and glimmer of my soul,
legionnaire of all mankind, you draw me to your heaven
as if I were a mere reflection of the stars I see tonight
I walked without her through a tentacled forest. Skulls broke beneath butters. A scarlet-and-gold clad Legionnaire, unequipped for darkness, richer than Deutsch chocolate. A lance bogged in moist marsh. Stripped bare and skull dragged, I broke free, into the forest. I walked there, without her.
Black Blazers we all wear;
I just sit and stare;
Hearing about things I don't care;
Do not close your eyes, just don't dare
Do not speak your truth, Oh! they will just glare;
Step out of the line, your reputation, Oh! it will be marred;
They all say, 'A chance like this is rare';
They tell me, let it break and tear;
It is just your soul, no one cares;
I am in their lair and their echos blare,
My life has become an unanswered questionnaire,
Written by their unware hand in this unnecessary warfare.
I cry beware, but others say it is our chance to polished silverware
And so it goes, I am a fool, a fraud who acts like this is my legionnaire.
I watched Shulamate dance, swirling, whirling
my intoxicated mind fast twirling.
Flame of Setif, Algieria burning
great lust deep within as I was drinking.
Legionnaire of “Sidi Bel Abbes”, bless
“Légion étrangère” with proper clean dress
Second Company, “Rien n'empêche” profess
Regimental sign: “ Nothing Prevents” yes
Music played poor ears with twanging sweet sound
Those beguiling notes making me now sway round,
beating rhythm, gripping me, on soul pound.
.She now made her “pièce de résistance”, and
pulling veil aside, then shows “derrière” bend.
“Vivi France,” “le coup de grâce”, my end.
Pistol-proud, Virginia-vain,
Deaf to danger, numb to pain,
Born a century too late,
George Patton spat at Fate.
Underneath the bombshell’s burst,
He knew this was not the first
Blood of enemies he’d spilled,
Nor the first age when he’d killed.
Once a prehistoric Celt,
Then a legionnaire who felt
Glee at gashing Jesus’ side;
Later, serving Him with pride.
Visionary general,
Prayerful, and profane, and all
This, and something more as well;
Poet, rhyming while bombs fell.
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