Over the Top

The bugle sounds,
the soldiers sise,
from the hellish trenches,
to the wind swept plains.
New men arrive,
full of boyish joy,
they join the line of beaten
souls,
of walking dead,
that were once,
like them.
The bugle sounds,
they line up in rows.
Ready to charge,
their deadly foe.
Over the Top,
the papers say.
An early grave,
is all the soldiers
see.
"Take the fight to the
enemy.
See the whites of their,
eyes."
More like the shells,
from their guns,
as they fire through our,
Line.
The Bugle sounds.
They rise as
One.