Death\'s Face
Standing, waiting in the line,
I hear the panting, shrinking, crying,
Our courage gone, our faces gray,
Not many men shall live this day,
The pound of feet, the beat drum,
The fear within us makes us numb,
Now upon the field we all stand,
The line is streched, a thin blue strand,
The orders come, the bugle call,
The men to right and left fast fall,
As ever onward we advance,
A surging forth as horses prance,
The roaring cannon boom and shake,
The bullets hot as lives they take,
Down upon the foe we fly,
Upon the graybacks; they shall die,
In I plunge, my bayonet cold,
The boy I\'ve killed, his body folds,
For one short moment I know him well,
His face e\'re in my mem\'ry dwells,
I wrench it out, it\'s trifold blades,
The light within his eyes now fades,
I\'m hunted by the memory,
That that boy\'s death gave to me,
Seared within my mind so deep,
I see him when I fall asleep,
His face as well I know my own,
His final cry, a painful groan,
Each night when try to sleep, I brace,
For now I\'ve truely seen death\'s face.