A Rifleman

A rifleman went to war,
He kissed his mother goodbye,
His father sent him off with a toast of rye,
A rifleman walked out the door.

He lay in the cold and the damp,
He breathed hardly a breath,
As he spat whispering death,
Marking the world with his rifleman’s stamp.

His rifle in his hands as he slept,
Dreaming the gunners dream,
Life without the innocent scream,
Sleeping a rifleman wept.

By day he made art,
Painting with the leaden brush,
Sealing the devils deals in a deadly hush,
A rifleman did his part.

A rifleman went home,
Gaunt and pale as a ghost,
Quiet and without a boast,
As his soul began to gloam.

In the night he would groan,
As the nightmares came more,
A rifleman stayed at war,
And in the end a rifleman died alone.