BEAST of the field

A Poem by MoriartyMesa

You speak of untold glory,

let me bring you death!

Coins dancing on the drums,

warm beds,

food,

and oh yes, lodging fit for the King himself.

Every lash is the officer's spite,

first step with the left,

than the right!

Now your place you Bog Irish B*****d,

Oh yes,

your gonna look smart,

shinny,

pretty by damned!!!

Pick up that musket!!!

Put on your coat!

Stand at attention!!

Officer's a foot,

EYE'S FRONT FARMER!!!!!

RUSSIAN, don't care if you can fight!!!

RUSSIAN LIKES TO CUT HIS MAN DOWN,

ALL SLOW!!!

'Beast of the field' is what I call us,

fresh bit of blood for Russian steal,

coats as red as the blood of a man flogged,

but do you know what Ivan?

This beast ain't aloud to stab an officer,

British officer that is!

Would you be so kind as to run into this charge,

it would be so ever grand.

This bog Irish b*****d,

is gonna get his steal bloody with officer blood.

After,

they can't hang me for doin me job,

might even get a medal,

sorry about this Ivan.