by Jan Iwaszkiewicz

You swell in the ranks of a roiling crowd.
The bugle sounds and the drum beats loud—
your chest puffs out and your eye is proud.
Your bubble is born to burst.
But glory’s not what the papers said.
It’s nights of fear and days of dread,
your nerves are shot and your mates are dead.
Your bubble is bound to burst.
Each year’s a brick to put in your hod,
the bottle’s your pimp and you love the sod
and you stagger to sleep and pray there's a god.
Your bubble’s about to burst.
You thought you’d been and seen the worst
but the queue’s for Hell and you’re standing first.
You can’t turn back and you know you’re cursed.
The bubble you had has bloody well burst
and you wake and you scream for God.


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