war drums.

He bangs the drum and makes a dreadful noise
it brings His gang of sprites and thugs- the boys;
and men of blackened tooth, unpure of heart
to fuel the flames of war he wish't to start

His stars and stripes are pinned upon his breast
He grin is skeletal and knows no rest
a barren smile all bleached and dead inside
"My troops!" He smiles "You fill my chest with pride!"

"Now march! And shoot! And kill! And rape! And burn!
Salute! Now go, as fast your heels can turn!"
Like dogs they bow and scrape and beg for scraps
His hounds; well-trained, they're groomed and fed- but trapped

Along by nose they're led en route to doom
for doubt and thought He fosters little room
"Now come! It's time for daily briefing, men!"
A prayer, wishing death on foreign kin

They walk as men yet crawl and kill like beast
and wield their guns for Country, Lord and Priest
They march with glee; with cries of righteous boast
while knowing neither name nor creed of host

A man soon learns to lock in deep his fears
to keep his wish for peace and light from peers
They sneer instead, and toy with sharpened knives
With faces marked by darkness bruising lives

That Darkness; manifest the Lord of Flies...

That blemish! Staining black upon their souls!
No boy should bear that weight nor play those roles
but "March!!" He screams "It's killing time, oh glee!"
He bangs the drum; its call is not for me.

- iambic pentameter exercise