The Call to Arms

Anklets and thieves are no more

Now enters the bravado of the calvary, the journeyed onslaught of the brigade

Here, stands comaraderie and brazen defiance of all things associated with the cousin of sleep

Join the underlings of the misanthropic warbling, planning our thievery on the banks of the Seine, as we toast with glasses of warm Belgian beer to our lost brethren of the Sommes

Perhaps after the subsequent conflicts, narrow escapes, and meager attempts at feeling any semblance of emotion for the cowards we shall kill, we shall dine on Salade Nicoise in the earthy shade of the bowers of the Dordogne canopies, satiate our incorrigible esurience with un croque monsieur, and laugh about the taste of salt on the air

Perhaps dear brothers, mayhaps

Instead, for now, let us dream of tip toeing with the daintiness of Indian Princesses on the collonades of the pulchritudinous sands of Braja, where bovine royalty eke out a path through disloyalty and dismay. Here our thievery shall end, our reformation begins

We shall lie wistfully on the banks of the Yamuna, coddled to sleep by the gentle embrace of her waters

The sky will dapple us with whimpers, and village women will ululate in parade

The Infantry has begun its recruiting. Hold back no longer; here in the gripping coil of adventurous soil and dirt, the sour drop of blood upon your licentious tongue, it is here, O child of Judas, that your dank and angry life begins its first pathetic steps . . .

Join the Infantry.

For the sake of her soul.