Here, in the grey, there in the black, standing erect and firm.
We hope to fight, to desolate, to teach but never to learn.
With our muscles tensed, our faces grim, we step forward in steady march.
The grey advancing, the black advancing, each wishing to be the first to start.
Standing on such high moral ground, each upon their worthy hill,
We, the grey and the black, descend to make the kill.
Now we stand, musket to musket, face to face and soul to soul.
Each braveheart must lose consciousness to escape the toll to unfold.
The first shot fired out, and immediately, the ball drew blood.
The black braveheart's face turned grey, his eyes rolled, and he fell where he stood.
The grey seemed surprised, the black enraged, and they charged, unanimous in thought;
All but one member of the black, with reposed character and smoking gun, realizing the havoc he wrought.
The two fought, the black with cause, the grey feeling falsely accused.
The lone member of the black, the only aware of this costly ruse.
The battle fought, the world won, the field soon to be ripe again.
Soon, in repetition of the old, the battle will be won again.