Marching with the rank and file
Third trench Christmas, it’s all lasting a while.
Curios whittled on frontlines and letters from home on a table in a pile
Songs with similar airs performed in curious varied style
Sitting on hard benches, itchy bunioned with asses piled
Slapped knees and all at ease, dancing between the aisles
Lacking Venusian companionship, men dance together, smiling spun like dials
Spinning until they fade away, between the crosses miles and miles of aisles.
Limey slimy with muck stepping like a woman not yet veteran to her potency
Blimey even the Captain trying to catch his eye, lifting his head to say “try me”
Held sighs, the scythe the sight thereof; three knocks like the reaper’s arrival to joviality stymy
Slack aways every back straightening like a nervous disease
That airy ease those Christmas geese out cracked open windows flee
Filing out the dugout empties, feast for fleas
With the comfort of crocodiles, hands extend to knees
Warm words, breath’s breeze, survive today survive with me
Blubbering some, all please and pleas on knees
What tetragrammaton decrees loop from which one cannot squeeze
Breath the simplest joy, placating as eastern teas.
Metatron frenziedly filling in his book
Herding in unwaries scarved by his crook
In Khaki his indistinguishable rank belying little of his famous wit, portly russophile Saki
Darkly darkly a Tommy rifles baccy but trifling Loki nearby alerts a rifleman
Lost ghost to a flame, scope framed, accosted at night like Purple Aki
“Put out that damn cigarette, man”
The man beside the author sprayed and shocked like Jackie
O Death triumphant, coin palm Hadesean catamaran
Cyclopean arch, flanked by corpses in piles
Third hairpin and five ahead still, the road will last forever
Marching with the rank and file.
Alchemisland 
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