Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers. If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you! (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again) — There's no discharge in the war! We—can—stick—out—'unger, thirst, an' weariness, But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of 'em — Boot—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war!
— Джозеф Редьярд Киплинг