The Rochester Recruiting Sergeant Poem by Tom Billsborough

Drum up support, my fine fellows,
The crowd is swelling.
The recruiting officer bellows
His generous offer of the King's shilling.
The press gang court shadows
Alert for the drunkard who staggers
And slips into seamanship,
Awakes to the nightmare
Of floggings and stale biscuit.
There's nothing more fun
Than fighting the French, we think,
Until, in the blink of an eye,
Cannon balls tear great holes
In our precise squares.
Who dares dies.
Smart young men in bright red gear,
Targets for ladies looking for heroes,
but now in the mesh
Targets for bullet and bayonet
Creating poppies in their disturbed flesh.