It’s always grounded in the two-four beat

of boot soles tramping across a field,

the plod of units across terrain

a general stakes his name on.

 

Holding the line, the kettle pounds

its rhythms of mutual fear. Embellished

with fifes, the snares are brash,

their prattle false as speeches

on recruitment day. Add some chimes

and majorettes, high-stepping,

winsome, their hoopla

invigorates old dogs leering.

 

When, half-blind, Kutuzov squints

and Bonaparte can’t see for smoke

the squares their blues and reds

are on, a bugle squealing on the flank

proclaims which side has won.

 

A ram’s horn summons

mountain tribes once it’s time

to lay aside unseemly feuds,

beset by greater storms.

 

In freedom’s name hoplites

trudge, singing solemn odes.

 

The pibroch wails its fierce lament,

a dirge for hopeless causes:

Hittites, Mayans, Jebusites,

their freakish pipes and drums

buried now in a ditch

with their tongues and palaces.

 

The self-righteous blare of brass

has toppled walls into dust.

Sweethearts and crooners

will give your boys an edge.

 

Subvert the enemy. Psych him out.

Symphonic morse transmits

the victor’s cryptic riff.