Get Up.
Flash. The lights are flicked
and sixteen feet all hit
the floor — we’re sorely ticked
we’ve had to leave our bunks
but to avoid a thrashing bit
we hide our funks;
we lick our sixteen lips
all chapped and quickly paste
on sickly smiles; haste
is health and ease, we’ve learned
while here, and memories erased
of jeans and hair and past lives spurned —
for what? I can’t recall.
Pendergast
A heavy burden is the Smaj’s post
Born by a man perforce a friend of few
Who, leaving out good Colonel, bears it most
And watches keenly o’er the men in blue.
He humbly served in tasks both mean and vast
With diamond-cut discernment held his rank
And though in thankless station ‘till the last,
Hath laid, by service, gold in heaven’s bank.
We’ll miss him at his post (though he does not)
And when recalling Sergeant Majors past
His smile will by memory be caught:
The voice, the name, the person, Pendergast.
