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Based, I guess, on the 'three guys ogling flesh at the bar' scene from "MBIAV."

Old Soldiers Never Die

by Susan M. Garrett

If they should sit and watch the women,
who should condemn them,
doing as they have done so many times before?
They have known the clatter of armor
the quick, slick slice of steel through flesh,
the acrid whiff of pepper powder from the gun muzzle,
and the scent of rancid blood,
fetid beneath the heat of an oppressive sun.

Those were days--and in truth--
when a pleasing scent,
soft female flesh and sheer scarlet silk
could make a man forget the thunder of armies,
stir battle-dulled senses to brief passion,
and hide, for the moment, the stain of spilled blood
that taints a war-weary soul.

The battles are long over, the sun many centuries past
for even for the youngest among them,
but the blood remains despite the span of time.
The armor and robes are replaced by milled cloth,
the click of a belt buckle sounding where once rang
the shifting metal links of heavy mail;
the gauntlets, helmets, greaves are left behind
for sun-protecting leather boots and gloves and darkened glasses.

Can this profession be cast from a man
like discarded clothing?
Or is that which makes the soldier so much the man
that his actions are of and by his nature,
less thought and will than flesh and blood,
in sinew, tissue, heart and soul,
inseparable until the breath has flown
and only empty corpse remains?

A man who knew empire and honor--
to serve, to hold, to fight, to win
by calculation, strategy,
to risk, to dare for pride
what would not be dared for passion.

The guiltless banished to holy war--
bound to vows weak flesh could not sustain,
the faithless were more like than not,
and being wounded, found
mortal fear in death's near embrace.

Adventurer, a fortune seeker--
new land, new ways, new world in truth
if not, in truth, a paradise,
seeking the ease of wealth
spattered with the blood of new men.

Not so far from what they once were,
these men of the night,
who find distraction as ever they have.
In attitude, in manner of speech and dress,
in action well-studied or of the moment,
they betray themselves, their histories,
the lives they have lived and will live,
natures irrevocably forged by war.

If they should sit and watch the women,
who should condemn them,
doing as they have done so many times before?
Cursed to know the darkness of this other time--
or blessed, perhaps, as each must judge his fate--
they are now no more than what once they were,
men who fought beneath the sun
for Glory, God, or Spanish Gold.

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