i think its safe to say we're in different camps, dude.
i fight as a roman as well as a pict,
but i leave the gauls to the other side of my stick
and when i'm silent, i thank god for the punic wars.
like you, i followed achilles to troy
and odysseus into the horse
and chased after aeneas for his sword,
but soon i learned a phalanx bests a horde.
discipline, my friend, that and an ounce of wit.
caesar won because he chose what ground to fight upon
and his legions could stand, linked, against a charge,
wit and discipline, but the greater part is the latter.
choose the ground, recognize its form,
defilade and ridge line, solar attitude,
then the beatitude and voice, then the glory---
formation first then assault and victory comes calling.
i suppose you have an uncanny love
for the misty guerrillas, from vercingetorix to collins,
rangers of all time, skilled to strike and fade
and disappear without ever showing form.
i admire them too,
i incorporate them into my ranks when i can,
use them on the trails, to seek and find,
but my fist is the legion of form.
once, i fell into the coliseum,
they called out my name and i had to fight as a gladiator,
and for six years i was a slave to the art,
a slave to the forms of the immortals.
freedom is knowing from what you are free.
victory is a form in itself that calls
attention to a wit and the discipline that bears it out,
forget these lines, my friend, and i pity you
for you shall ever be a slave.