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
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