"Condemned"

Fall in, signaled the regimental sergeant major

Upon this cold wet Sunday morn,

Duty calls my boys, keep your heads up.

Forming two ranks moving through the line

Left right, left right, left right marching to the square

Rifles on shoulders nearly there,

Halt, left turn, present arms, single line

Facing a man before us, tied hands, at ease

What of his sins standing fifty feet in front of this firing squad.

Drumrolls, order arms

Officers stand tall, charges are read

This man is given one last cigarette,

Orders are called to this eight man squad,

At-tention called the sergeant

Rifles at rest, one bullet per man

seven good, one blank, who is lucky today.

Ready, as the drum rolls for the last time,

The priest walks away from the condemned,

Last call
 
Ready,   aim,   fire.

Eight fingers pull as one on their triggers

Pigeons take flight, as echoes ring loud

Slow motion, he falls held only by his ropes

Order arms,

Right turn

Quick march

Is ordered in a low voice

We march away, duty complete.

gw