Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

Happy Are Men Who Yet Before They Are Killed Can Let Their Veins Run Cold.

My Soul's A Little Grief, Grappling Your Chest, To Climb Your Throat On Sobs; Easily Chased On Other Sighs And Wiped By Fresher Winds.

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

These Men Are Worth Your Tears. You Are Not Worth Their Merriment.