Poetry

In the early morn,
We hear the horn.

And as we rise,
It slowly dies.

And as we prepare,
For what no man would dare.

And as we charge,
Upon that barge.

And as we yell,
Right into Hell.

They brandish their swords,
Those unholy hordes.

They raise their flags,
Those putrid Hags.

They smile and sneer,
As we draw near.

They scream and bellow,
Their eyes run yellow.

They rush our line,
With their painful whine.

And as we fight,
This glorious night.

We watched in awe,
At what we saw.

Upon an ivory stallion,
With a Holy Medallion.

He swung his sword,
Upon that horde.

And with all holy might,
Put an end to that night.