Trumpets sounding signaled the new dawn,
Many Recruits woke up with a frown;
Some grumbled and some muttered,
While some are too tired to be bothered.
Rushing out to the rally ground,
Ears peeled for their officers' sound;
Everything there is just a routine,
Every slight diffraction results in latrine.
Yet they stood and look their best.
Even if the rules are a pest;
Even if they're controlled with an iron fist,
They're the recruits of our National Service!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem