The bitter smattering, the cold, stagnant icicles
Of the iron birds, their rigid wings
Descend like anathema
Upon our sun-caked heads,
Our firebird souls—
The Fritz’s stiff storm cloud, mechanical rain
Shield the sun, their livid lightning
Lingering like irony
Over our bloodshot lips,
Our firebird fists—
The sloping, oblique hill, the lead drizzle
Force us upwards! upwards! Through the hail
We forge like courage
To the bunkered hill,
Our fearless foes—
Metal clashes fleshing—our stomachs barraged
Of Baron’s blow, its hideous squall; further, boys,
Of wars do we go!
Upon the knolling crest,
The firebirds sigh, now home.
Jonzo Bandwagoner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-firebirds/
