Look alive, gentleman, or fake your death, your wounds undressed beneath your costumes.
Some are so well rehearsed for hearses it hurts, always the first to wave the white
Flag and barricade yourself in false pretenses, fox holed in trenches.
We are the corps of corpses; we are up in arms and armed.
Push on; plod on these legs like pistons, pumping forward
motion, convalescent men in uniform. We have fallen to friendly fire; shrapnel freckles our spine. Still our feet fall one by one. The cannon’s calling our name. I hear her singing to me in morse code,
“This is our revolution!
To arms! To Arms!
This is a revolution!”
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