Over the top.
Bayonet is fixed,
The lug is locked and it will not move.
Heart is pounding,
The mood is sour.
The meal is half-eaten,
The stew still steaming.
“Going over the top,” they said, “you will need to be speedy.”
At least give us our last meal before sending us over.
Officers are fat and well-fed,
Their plump bellies barely fitting into their uniforms.
“For France!” One of them cries.
As if France can hear our voices cry.
Off goes the whistle.
Time to do some work,
Over the top we go,
Where we end up, no one knows.