Hymn of 1918


It is a funny thing,
This skewed concept of our deaths,
That on this barren battlefield,
We soldiers draw our final breaths.
Without fear or trepidation,
We march swiftly to our doom,
Knowing that with our ends,
The rest of the world we might exhume.
In these final hours,
A simple credo we uphold,
That if one dies out here tonight,
The rest of us must never fold.
They can try to force us back,
But the other side knows naught,
What we are prepared to give,
And what a soldier's pride has sought.
Trapped in this cruel play,
We will fight until the end,
Our spangled hearts united,
Upon our honor we will defend.
My final curtain is drawing near,
My repose close at hand,
But whatever happens in the morning,
I will see peace again.

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