The Camp

Near the ghostly Grimney mire

Sat five soldiers around a blazing camp fire

Each one spoke had a story to tell

Of fights with sprites

And demons from Hell

Each of them were human in form

And wore black uniforms that were tattered and torn

One was a major in the Queen’s Elite

The type of man who would not retreat

Looking at the other four

I realised they had seen the horror of war

One had a patch across his left eye

Taken away when an arrow did fly

The other three were covered in mud

Faces scarred and laced with blood

And as they sat telling their stories

Of so many of their former glories

I began to wonder just how long

These men would sing their victory song. 

The Camp

 

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