Richmond Hill

Huddled in the trenches,

Mustered upon Richmond Hill.

Our eyes drift towards horizon,

All is quiet, still.

…

Across the fields of England,

We see our foes approach.

Three-legged, roving monsters,

Who stride as if beyond reproach.

…

No word spoken among us,

Aside from softly given prayers.

Cold both our souls and bodies,

A bitter chill is in the air.

…

They still move towards the trenches,

The Martians seek to tempt our ire.

So for God and King and Country,

The gunny yells out "fire!"

…

Rifle, Gatling, cannon shot,

Light and fire fill the night.

The invaders know our fury,

Feel the force of British might.

…

Here and there a walker stumbles,

One is downed, bursts into flames.

But we see their weapons charging,

Know the invaders won't refrain.

…

Heat beams hit our artillery,

The guns explode with mighty crash.

Other beams rip through the trenches,

Reducing men to ash.

…

The beams, they tear through everything,

Dust and ashes fill the air.

Alongside the cries of the dying,

Screams of fear and loss, despair.

…

But worst of all, there's the black smoke,

Down comes a sickly haze.

Men can only flee or die,

As the remaining guns are razed.

…

And then, at last, a silence,

The walkers, linger, still.

The way to London's open.

They've taken Richmond Hill.