Terry D. Sutherland


Centurions now dressed in green
Their armor is a steel machine
Their lance is a rocket’s flight
They battle both day and night

The centuries they command
Travel far in foreign sand
Their rate of march is not in fours
They fly by air to foreign shores

A mission that remains the same
A wake of ruin gives them fame
Their legions though are made of man
And with others they walk the land

In conventional battle they never lose
But it is not convention their enemy choose
Engagements now of hit and run
Render ineffective the centurion’s gun