Backed in a corner, nothing they can do
This tired bunker is their last stand
They tried to harass enemy forces
But a tank saw them
Now these specialists are prey
In the grasslands it chased them like dogs
The lieutenant was killed
by its frantic machine gun
Fighting back was in vain
With bullets like spitwads bouncing off the hide
They hid in the forest but it mowed down the trees
And the main gun turned Private Lawton to paste
Bullet streaks and scorched earth fueled their retreat
But it trailed them like a black hound of hell
Hungry for blood
Rifles in the hull got Carson’s blood
Swivel machine gun ripped out his throat
They stepped on mines when they ran
And left their best friends screaming with no legs
Destined to die in a forsaken field
Now they cower in the dark
And it rolls over the hill, still approaching
Out of ammo but relentless to the core
They shoot every gun and throw their grenades
But it bursts through the wall like a stampede of rhinos
A bloodthirsty triceratops crunching their spines
The fetid stench of oil and grease, the insistent squeaking
Always following, nipping at the heels
Compressing ribs to mulch
Grinding nerves to slithering trails
Tracking blood is all in a day’s work