The Suicidal Soldier

My invaluable honor’s been tarnished,
A stain on my family name.
For a misunderstanding in battle,
Court martial: no gentleman’s game.

Grimly, I march into battle,
Prepared for the necessity: death.
Heartened by knowledge that honor,
Will return with my last gasping breath.

How shall I insure my demise?
A dilemma I’ve given much thought.
The verdict: A fresh fighting mount;
A great target I’ve recently “bought.”

With haste, I advance into battle,
My 54’s thirsty for blood.
Impulsively, finger meets trigger,
A Yankee facedown in the mud.

Great pain surges through my whole body,
As I feel the inev’table shot.
My arm, stabbed by cruel knives of fire,
Turns to scarlet the garment I brought.

I pass out and waft to the heavens,
And magnificent gates My Lord draws.
Yes, surely St. Peter is happy,
That I died for our pure, noble cause.

I’m jerked from my dreams of redemption,
For a moment I feel perfect bliss.
But bloodlust soon hijacks my senses,
Urged to kill before death’s final kiss.

Alas, I’m unable to rise,
As I’m pinned under piles of dead.
Weakly, I whisper, “Forgive me!”
Just a pile of rags, torn and red.