Twenty-three going on ninety-two,

An army man. Of substance.

A silly little twitching moustache man

With a beard that chuckled

When he ate (powdered bread with beer)

And stood stonily silent

Otherwise.

His boots, polished muddy and

Impeccably used, he would march

To the sound of his own rumbling

Voice while the cadets just watched

Somewhat amused, somewhat scared.

One day they'd be

Just like him