Redundant, notwithstanding tales of recompense;
Sixteen supple soldiers sitting on a fence.
One calls out in his native tongue, a shout:
“Never you mind, there’s a lot of it about!”
Indignantly, they cherish, a lanyard in a pit,
Retaliate, they must, or cover him with spit.
Guns ablaze, they jump off, coupled with a yell:
“Stay there, lest we wrestle with a bloody hell!”
He goes down quick and easy, barely with a fight,
Fifteen uniforms remain, a crow that flies at night.