The Fact Has Not Created In Me

Swift Blazing Flag Of The Regiment,eagle With Crest Of Red And Gold,these Men Were Born To Drill And Die.point For Them The Virtue Of Slaughter,make Plain To Them The Excellence Of Killingand A Field Where A Thousand Corpses Lie.

The Fact Has Not Created In Me A Sense Of Obligation.

I Saw A Man Pursuing The Horizon;round And Round They Sped.i Was Disturbed At This;i Accosted The Man."it Is Futile," I Said,"you Can Never-""you Lie," He Cried,and Ran On.

Do Not Weep, Maiden, For War Is Kind. Because Your Lover Threw Wild Hands Toward The Sky And The Affrighted Steed Ran On Alone, Do Not Weep. War Is Kind. Hoarse, Booming Drums Of The Regiment, Little Souls Who Thirst For Fight, These Men Were Born To Drill And Die. The Unexplained Glory Flies Above Them, Great Is The Battle-god, Great, And His Kingdom -a Field Where A Thousand Corpses Lie. Do Not Weep, Babe, For War Is Kind.

There Were Many Who Went In Huddled Procession,they Knew Not Wither,but, At Any Rate, Success Or Calamitywould Attend All In Equality.there Was One Who Sought A New Road,he Went Into Direful Thickets,and Ultimately He Died Thus, Alone;but They Said He Had Courage.