His serial-numbered shell
Took out the whole platoon,
Bayonets and pipes and kilts and all.
The stifled battle-cry,
Vaguely Gaelic, burning
With the aftertaste of rum,
Voiced the ancient barbarity
Regimentally nurtured
In the 'Ladies From Hell.'
The shrieking axe bit deep,
Hacked the post-death sentience
To a sliver of awareness.
The clenched discarnate soul
Focused a consciousness
Frozen in mid-leap.
A cry of ritual aggression
Silently screaming
Down eternity.
