The dead are dead and we are still alive,
Although the time will come when we will join
Our bullet-ridden brothers. Who’ll revive
This cult of blood? Who’ll flip the fateful coin?
On which side will it land, face up or down?
Is this capriciousness or simple luck
That starts or stops a farce of such renown?
They call the toss, but do they give a fuck?
The arc of flesh that blossoms from the blast,
And traces red across a hot blue sky,
Will fall too short and fall too god-damned fast
To punctuate the promise of the lie.
And Private Jones will quickly bleed to death
For nothing but a wisp of wasted breath.