Macoroni Poem by chris bowen, a.k.a to wit

marching for orders.the drip of sweat reaches uniform shirt and i am busted by my commander for looking down at it.he only smiles, never a vile word out of his mouth.in the distance dust is kicked up by the oncoming army, one of professional apptitude and service to the queen.the red coats generally meet in a grassy knoll and feel about as much liquid in their gut as you do.the chance for temptation to pass and let the lads live has gotten small.only the ball and shot will be heard today.the register breaks free and i am of covenant that merciful union of god and course leads the way and the freedom ring bell will once again bestow itself upon the magic river called philedelphia.the penchant for fun now over, i glance over my shoulder at running deer just behind us in a thicket.i wanton for destruction this morning and mourn the loss of a shot at a deer carcus.the preemptive strike is over, the yankee's have won the day, but at what cost? the liberty bell sings its song and they march on, ever pleasant to have won whatever madness to have beseeched the redcoat to come over in the first place.canada sings its song and reaches over for the velvet revolver.the one with swing song and know it all madness.the blast is hurt, never death, and i crystalize and wonder the worthiness of this battle.