We painted the lines
with fetlock and musket,
and rambled in time
with the guidon and chestnut.

We festooned this day, our best
in a simple melancholy mess
and danced the grand retreat
for the friends, whose duty put to sleep.

Old Glory proceeds with such reverent cadency
overshadowing a mournful and humbling sight.
Windrows of a restive yankee sea
overtake the bloc with eyes — right.

The death of new days have since been determined,
so we’ll dance for more friends and shoulder the burden.
Sending taps to the wind in a cold, crimson rain
and consider the starkness of duties pain.