Squawking buzzards
Hang above my rigid frame
Awaiting, with a sickly hunger
Gathering, massing
Thieving of these winter skies
Far gone and bleeding
Where the muskets bore through
Not a whimper in my voice
Not a thought in my skull
I graciously
Die, blissfully unaware
It was a fleeting honor
For the twentieth Maine
Garbed in sacred blue
Bayonets at the ready
We sprang for madness
Shouting to higher glory
As the cannons butchered, and maimed
Sparring not a soul
No fresh face unscathed
I caught my fate
Swift, clean, and painless
Another notch to their belts
Another name, pressed and sold
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