28.       FLARE

You age badly Clare
Your master seems not to care
When you light up the seat of my pants
Than over the frontline yonder.
Boots and handfuls of sand
We kill the fires than the enemy.
The flares light us up
For a turkey shoot
Like a sitting duck.
Please check your stock
For a new date
And your flare will be yonder
In the eyes of your enemy
And not in your quartermaster’s
Fire upped barbecue behind you.