A Gentleman Ranker

Tourniquet up
and scale the bayonet fences
cupcake.
Today we yomp,
cut loose
from pillory post
and singing
the forced march
groove.
Our cardboard shoes
are lined with reasons
to run,
to move,
to bear the weight
of the mind's ordinance
and heavy armor.
Pick it up, sunshine.
It's a long way
from truth's
line of departure
to the hell of nowhere.
Each grim waypoint
will trace
great circle routes
over rigor mortised
happy endings
and hopes
tandooried charred
beyond recoginition.
Chin up, cookie.
It's better to pack up
and march
holding the wolf's tail
than it is
to have one's hair
washed with lead.