The old men at the party,
Each and all were buddies.
Their faces lined and faded
As the combat maps once studied.

A last man’s club near midnight,
Their numbers growing small.
No longer straight and sturdy,
No longer brave and tall.

Each raised his glass to soldiers,
Now harder to remember.
With tearful eye and heavy heart,
All now in late December.

We all are in a last man’s club,
As agile youth grows feeble.
Each and every hundred years,
It’s almost all new people.

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