"Onwards!" he ordered, and onwards they went,
Lyons' legions stretched far and wide, but funnelled through the space of a door.
Patriotic tear in their eyes, for honour, for humanity,
They would do the Elder's bidding.
Little did they know, beyond the threshold, the scouts had overlooked.
A back entrance, where the brutes had planned,
To surprise their numbers with numbers,
Greenskins with weapons beyond expected.
Machine guns, Gatlings, missiles and mininukes,
Open season on the smallest slither of Brotherhood streaming through.
No time to turn or call to stop, they could only push forth,
Scattering like broken glass, perhaps if they spread, some could survive.
"Onwards!" they ordered, but nowhere did they go,
Except towards the floor, riddled with death,
Patriotic tears, turned to streams of fear,
"Ad Victoriam!" The soldiers sighed. The bodies began to mount atop each other.
But numbers would beat numbers, after hours they would push through,
Clambering atop their dead brothers, they stumbled beyond enemy lines.
Breaking through and winning the day,
Wading through pools of shell shock and blood.
At the end, the Elders claimed their prize:
A car-sized machine, that didn't even work.
The Proctor promises it will be fixed any time soon,
But that's to keep the soldiers happy.
Dropping like flies for a hopeless cause,
Death and scarring for nothing more that a rumour.
They talk of how the Brotherhood is "honourable" and "noble,"
But I know of a few hundred corpses who would beg to disagree