The Broken

Haven't the faintest idea if this is the right structure, but I had a stab at imitating it without looking it up.

The broken come a-marching, ten by ten.
The vibrant call of horn-song fills the air.
And fills the ears of shameful, torn-flesh men.

They march to war that swears it will be fair.
A promise that they do not dare to hope
Will be fulfilled in earth barren and bare.

Around their necks are scraps of knotted rope.
Held fast against the day that they will die.
Without that scrap, there's no way we could cope.

They see their names inscribed across the sky.
They hear their crimes embedded in the horn.
They do not stop and stare and wonder why.

And then they crest the hill and they are gone.
They crest the hill - don't follow! - they are gone.