The army steps in step by step,
Each footfall neatly mapped.
With twelve to the front
And eight to the rear
Each arm swing has been choreographed.
Eyes straight forward,
Posture checked,
Weapons neatly held in place,
No syncopation is allowed
In this display of rhythmic grace.
No one allowed to miss a beat...
No one allowed to wander...
No time for stopping to reflect...
No time to pose or ponder.
Always in a rush,
Though I don't understand the race.
No wonder I feel out of step...
And even out of place.
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