Caesar’s Ghost

Last night I spoke with Caesar's ghost.
We both had had our fill of wine.
But then the ******* made a boast:
How his blokes would have beaten mine.

Now, a General I have never been.
Whilst saying that reluctantly,
I could not argue what he had seen.
Thus, had to think most carefully.

Therefore, I spoke of contact drills,
Of duty weeks and other thrills.
And of the things that I had seen
Tales of what I once had been.

But carefully, not beating breast,
For after all He was the best.
Recounting only what I saw,
Not saying much about my war.

But talk, why not where I have been?
Am I ashamed of what I have seen?
Or, I am asking, is it wrong
To beat one's chest, to sing one's song?

That man of Caesar's who jumped ship
With Eagle held in calloused grip.
Inspiring witnesses to roar,
Then wade with him to Britain's shore.

Is he so different? Or might I say
To Caesar, “come round here and have a look
At all these men so brave today.
Would you have put them in your book?”

No. Really what I meant to say
To Caesar was that on the day
He launched his men through thick and thin
It was because he meant those men to win.

Whereas in our bold day and age
No matter who might shout and rage
We do not do that anymore.
We will fight, but not to win the war.

Which is why I left the swine,
Came back to Earth, peered at my wine.
He knew, thus his boasting leers.
I knew he knew, thus my shame and these my tears.