116 words
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How bitter to abandon the King Tiger,
long 88 pointed toward the blackened sky;
to flee west for three days in the spring snow
from the T34s of the Red Army;
to toss the Luger, and wave the white flag,
a riddled rag mocked by the grinning victors;
to receive a rifle butt to the jaw
and not a bar of Hershey’s Chocolate;
to wake, with a headache, to a small breakfast
of mud and grass, a cup of yellow piss;
to struggle to hold up a brother in arms,
captured in newsreels that taunt to this day;
to turn your collar toward the camp of saints,
condemned to bear the whips and scorns of time.
