The Camp
Near the ghostly Grimney mire
Sat five soldiers around a blazing camp fire
Each one spoke had a story to tell
Of fights with sprites
And demons from Hell
Each of them were human in form
And wore black uniforms that were tattered and torn
One was a major in the Queen’s Elite
The type of man who would not retreat
Looking at the other four
I realised they had seen the horror of war
One had a patch across his left eye
Taken away when an arrow did fly
The other three were covered in mud
Faces scarred and laced with blood
And as they sat telling their stories
Of so many of their former glories
I began to wonder just how long
These men would sing their victory song.
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