To boys of blue: you must not cry,
for yours is but to do and die;
to march without the dire complex
and folly of the weaker sex.

The world that you were born into
has spaces carved out just for you,
ripe with fruit fit for your pleasure:
pick and plunder at your leisure.

Power over crafted creatures,
(fragile forms with softer features)
sprung from rib and violent ache
for you to mold, and crack and break.

In this world the bold inherit,
boys of blue must strive for merit.
For there is no fame in trying,
time for rest or strength in dying.

In this rank and rotten melee,
mark-ed few will rise up freely:
Born to walk a gilded path,
as wheat sprung from the weighty chaff.

They will climb this modern Zion,
crush the serpent, snake, and lion,
push against the rolling boulder
and hold skies on swollen shoulders.

But boys of lesser tribe and race,
the boys from lands devoid of Grace,
must yield to those of greater worth,
of fairer face or nobler birth.

For those before spared you no thought,
—in spite of all their wars you fought—
in truth, no matter what you do,
the world they carved lacks room for you.

So find your place within the chain,
bite back the smarting sting of shame.
For should this world bar your progress,
comfort in those you can oppress.

Those fragile forms under glass ceiling,
built for your comfort and healing,
Lacking purpose, rights and cause
except to mask your dents and flaws.

To that worn ladder must you cling
and endure unjust suffering,
for still, your prospects might be worse
had you been born to woman’s curse. 

To boys of blue: you must not cry,
for yours is not to reason why,
but toil  and try and suffer through
the world old boys have built for you.

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