The longest darkness of the year <br /> comes as Christmas is drawing near. <br /> We dug and cursed the frozen ground <br /> The snow was deep, more coming down. <br /> <br /> We are surrounded and outgunned. <br /> We’re short of food and winter gear. <br /> Medicines are running out <br /> and we have scores of wounded here. <br /> <br /> I do believe my feet are frozen <br /> I can no longer feel my toes. <br /> But still I will not leave the line <br /> What I ‘d give for a cuppa joe. <br /> <br /> The sounds of Panzers in the wind- <br /> Shouts heard in a guttural tongue- <br /> We brace for yet one more attack <br /> and vow we won’t be overrun. <br /> <br /> We’re the battling bastards of Bastogne <br /> No mother, no father, no Uncle Sam <br /> The Germans came, we beat them back- <br /> But now we’re a much smaller band. <br /> <br /> <br /> When our surrender was demanded <br /> They say McAuliffe told them nuts. <br /> I’ve heard that Patton will relieve us <br /> We’re waiting on “old blood and guts”. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />John F. McCullagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bastogne/
