The soldiers spit and then decry
The rottenness of all their feast,
Snarling as they’re nourished on
The living flesh of dying beast
Whose labor brought them hitherto
With much travail and sacrifice,
And spared their feet the journey so,
Though all its strength could not suffice
To keep its feet unfaltering
On treach’rous pathways sought afresh;
Each misstep now recounted as
They glut themselves on tired flesh.
The horse that drew the wagon to
The edge of revolution’s field
Though scorned by révolutionnaire,
In death its final strength does yield.
So nourished, soldiers soldier on
And never dream in their dull lives
How brave the heart that perished there
Beneath their cool, assuming knives.