Those who plod, so loyally blind,
Who follow, mindlessly, without goal,
With no destination, no hope in mind,
And with all the trust of a newborn foal,

They march on with impending forebode,
Marching on, through trenches, and dreaming of home,
They keep on trudging, for their comely abode,
Marching along to that order; their tome,

That echoed order, through the chasms of ranks,
To take the fight to the enemy’s banks,
On foot, by boat, by plane or tank,
All for a grudge, a politician to thank,

They fight, they die, sweet sacrifice,
With circumstantial enemies to meet,
To die and leave as cold as ice,
To think this started with heavy feet…