When cannon-balls are cutting heads
I like to think of you.
When Grays and Blues as crazy cats
Blow up delightful yore - 

I want to deeply dig myself.
And after powder battle steaming
I wish to meet the little silver elf
To whisper him my childish dreaming

And save this elf from rusty death,
And fill the air with smell of scent.
So - hope and love, dear Beat,
So - fall on heads, my lucky cent!

As for the other things - the meat is meat,
The blood is blood and armies on retreat...