The scramble for script presence
Prominent and impasive pieces of the puzzle,
Force their way to the print essence
Paramount are all but the blaze; ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.