The last verse contains lyrics from Pink Floyd's Dogs of War,written by David Gilmour and Pink Floyd, not me.

He stumbles through the field.

It has been freshly sowed and watered

(with blood). New bodies cover the once green grass.

His search could be hours.

His boot accidentally lowers on a skull.

It crumbles to grey dust with

the merest of force. He does not notice and

leaves his captain's dust behind.

His mission is now clear; however, not who,

nor where,.

Who is it that he need find here among

the desecrated and dwindling life?

A face, seen countless times. An

unlikely target, that of which the dogs of war

know so well. The dirty scoundrels.

The traitorous fools.

The dogs of war, unknown. He is.

Not even his captain knew of him.

Who he was.

What his rank is.

The haze above remains brown

and gray. Brackish. The harsh scent

of gunpowder and lead

attack his nose in a blaze.

He coughs.

And in that instant,

scolds himself.

The position is given away!

But silence hands as a trophy stag's head.

Nothing whispers, not even the wind.

No one attacks.

He is safe, for the moment.

He sits in wait.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Breathing.

Again, he moves, liquid.

Crashing through the contrasting grasses

in his haste.

He concedes to find his prey.

He who turned on our soldier.

A knife to the back.

A gun to the head.

The truest of deceptions.

Their in-arms war began

that crisp winter night

when the High Command

fell into fiery oblivion.

And out of their ashes

came orders; new, unnecessary orders.

Find. Stalk. Engage.

Kill.

The orders taste sweet

in his mouth after each reciting.

The traitor will die.

The traitor must die.

The crack-whip shatters

the crystaline silence, his confidence.

A bullet sears past.

Death is has swept past.

With a willowing gasp,

he rolls away just as

a hailstorm falls.

A storm of lead and steel.

His hand is frozen;

no strength comes

as he tried to lift

the rifle.

And once more,

the silence is torn

by a torrent of death.

A wind of bullets blows.

From behind comes a blood-curdling scream.

Another has fallen.

An innocent has fallen.

Despair overtakes the dog of war.

A curse befalls the soldier's lips,

claiming deafened ears:

"You bastard!" rings though

the blackening trees.

Darkness upon ears.

No response.

No retort.

The traitor hides, wise.

Our soldier prays for no blaze of glory.

A bloody and stupid end frightens him.

Unsecured vengeance would be

dastardly and wrong.

Unjust if so.

Not only orders are to bear,

but the avenging of the slaying

of innocence, friends, colleagues.

The traitor, this tyrant of feelings

having enslaves rage and sorrow,

is his own lure.

The dogs of war cannot ignore.

At long last, he is strengthened.

He raises his rifle, shoulders

the blunt tool,

the killing, thrilling machines.

On his feet!

Crouched, poised.

His hollow, black eyes

detect all.

But detect nothing.

He has vanished, the traitor.

As if a wisp of smoke,

gone.

The soldier, anxious.

His target, the heretic, eludes him.

Mission failure? Approaching.

His honor and confidence tears.

But retreat would be wrong

for the cause would be lost,

when the cause can be won.

Hesitationless, he marches,

head high, rifle poised

for the next attack.

He is numb.

So very, very, utterly numb.

And weary, sleepless for time immemorial.

In fear of death

(yet he is fearless).

He fears failure.

And another shot fills the air.

ATTACK! Run for shelter boy!

He dives to the ground

at the sound.

His rifle fires off

into the trees.

The trees.

Into the trees, soldier.

His shots hang in the air,

floating away, he thinks.

And the air, burning about them,

is pushed back.

Did they hit their mark? He knows

not of the results, rather

his prayers.

He shall know soon.

He is met with a rude reply

of lead and explosions.

Rip through his jacket

like needles.

He is down, covered in mud.

Reddened earth and reddened grass.

He is wracked, tormented, cut up with pain.

He was deceived.

From behind comes the cackle

and the squelching sound

of footsteps in the mud.

The traitor approaches.

Our dog of war rolls onto right side,

a fatally piercing stare upon

his agonized face.

Blood rivers from his jowls.

The enemy's smirk,

nauseating in all its glory,

erupts from within our soldier

burning fury.

A glint forms in his eye,

a victory shine.

He has won.

The good has fallen.

Words begin to seep from him,

across the air,

but are interrupted.

*Bang*

He jumps back several

feet, yards, meters.

A visceral hole oozes,

forms in his chest.

No words, nor breath come.

His eyes, popping eyes, widen.

He falls, falls to the kingdom of mud.

Dead.

With a final grin,

the dog of war

throw away the pocket Magnum.

He lies back,

dreaming of Mother

(bless her heart)

and chokes on the truth:

He is truly, indeed, dead.

A mocking verse rises

from the back of memories

as they empty his hippocampus.

Lyrics that are too true.

"Dogs of war and men of hate.

With no cause, we don't discriminate.

Discovery is to be disowned.

Our currency is flesh and bone."