The Battle
Pikes held high,
Flags fill the sky,
Drummer boys sound the beat,
Musket men are on their feet.
White smoke swirls, ram down the ball really hard,
Pour in the gunpowder to make the charge.
Front rank kneel, back rank stand and take your aim,
On command back rank fire, then swop over with the front rank to add their shoots to the bloody mire.
The man besides you falls, his head a scarlet red,
But you just keep on firing as a new man takes his place instead.
It's time to fix your bayonet, that long sharp piece of steel,
Then walk towards the enemy without showing what you feel.
You are close enough to look the man right in the eye,
You don't know what to do, just stop and break down to cry?
But you hear the shout of your sergeant calling out,
Don't stop boys we are almost there give them a bloody clout.
I stab forward with my bayonet, aiming at a button clasp,
I feel the blade hit home, and the man lets out a long long gasp.
He sinks slowly to his knees, and drops down flat as if he is asleep,
We just keep stepping forward, I feel like I could weep.
Suddenly there is silence a deep oppressive peace,
Then you loudly hear the pleads of the wounded begging for release.
Ours is the only flag left flying now, so it seems that we have won,
But I just feel totally empty, I feel like I should run.
But we just have to get ready again,
Before the enemy reassembles and heaps on much more pain.
Copyright ©
Mark West
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