Another Cliche Poem About the Revolution

Was it the quivering grey to my left,
or the one coated in red?
Nobody knows who fired the shot,
but it was the first of many more.
We were lined up in a row for a sure loss to the masses;
tomorrow we will find the trees.
The white X marks the spot,
we make red coat bleed into pristine fabric.
Strong and sure feet balance beneath shrubs,
and atop branches,
tomorrow we will find victory.