The geese flee south,
In the moonlight.
A weird eerie sight.
Silent dark shadows gliding,
In that putrefying light.
The report of a rifle.
A shock.
A flash.
The spark ignites.
Baal’s port smashed,
Despoiled.
Ruination.
The Orders of the day.
Perhaps the best nears its end.
Only Thompson would know.
Escorted in a somber,
Armoured Cruiser.
By W.N. Branson 
