By Adrian Frey
The old general had marched his last march;
Is any general bitter of the glory
They receive? A sabre dropping on a table
The brother of all our inward looking death
There is no such thing as glory, it is
Interred with our bones and swords.
I’d like to think Washington had supped
His fill of sabres, glory and man-made things
And wished to be buried in life with his men.