Boys, bullets, and boots
March, march to the ivory gate,
The monsters are ready for a hoot
You can tell from the boy’s unsteady gait.
Push, fight and shoot
The boys fight for the political pen,
Putting the strong ones in stripe galoots
Even in Summer fields, just boys who are gunmen.
The faded flags and crosses
Bourne on the backs of boys.
The fallen lie in eternal sleep,
While posterity tends to their keep.
The boys break and beg
Crawl in knee-deep amour
For the flag remains proud,
But the war never ends.