A face red, like the General's
Glares still and stoic,
Above sinewy arms
Embracing to strangle.

A stare through glass,
Like a grandfather clock;
It tocks and knocks,
But ticks and locks.

A whistling pierce
That scratches the air;
A respect hard-earned,
A mutual nod.

Behind the idol
Within the shadows,
Against a force, a milky white;
The army stands.