We are a weary battalion.
We are bruised and our limbs are sore.
We have not had peace in our encampment.
Even the water has turned bitter.
Some of us smell bad.
Kind words are rarely spoken.
Morale is lower than a snake’s ankles.
Our leader is too weary to command.
The forecast is bleak.
A joke of the day would likely offend someone.
No two are soothed by the same melody.
Now Hiring: Morale Officer.
NaPoWriMo Day #7