Scabbed scorched dry minded bowtied notions
Marching a mundane march to splintery cold light
Faithfull-to the dull calling of the reveille- leaden sons
Empty hearted on a crusade to crown the trite
Oh but when they reach that papercutting edge
The promising tip of this here cumbersome page
They shall fall off the face of their sleepy earth
Unfastening my strapped psyche they shall deliver me
To a freshly planted, open shirt no collar ideas' birth
I will henceforth rise and set to the singing of birds
And then the stiff pompous soldier words
shall no more hold power over me!