Ten to a Squad

They have told me that there are ten to a squad,

And 600 shots in each round.

They say, “Do the math,” and then I sit back,

And wait, and wait, and wait for the sound.

Maybe one day you’ll stop shelling holes in your boots,

And finally your toes could be dry.

But no matter how many storms you endure,

You never look at the sky and ask the clouds why.

And since a sole is a sole is a sole is a soul,

Tired, beaten, damned, and numb,

You try to forget the day you enrolled,

But you and I both know that the difference is always the sum.

And wait for the hum,

Because blood is the price and the rich never pay.

The only number that matters to you is one,

When we take honor, and pride, and your future away.

Only one shot can take you down,

Were you thinking of me when you started to drown?

It doesn’t much matter, since I’m here in my tent,

Arranging the squads about to be sent.