France II

Let hope rely upon your Maginot for swift retort has choked your Gallic might. It crushed your will beneath its undertow as diligence receded in the fight. Your flailing forces teeter on defeat and any hint of truce shall be denied. As allied fronts relinquish in retreat, your Maginot must stall his raging tide. But hope is void, for through Achille’s path his perseverance skirts your Gallic veil. The devil’s corps unloads its warring wrath to force the mighty Maginot to fail. Your hope is obsolescence in disguise. ‘Tis but a flaw a beast will compromise. ‘Tis but a flaw a beast will compromise as diligence and impetus reversed. Your allied forces faltered in reprise when Ardennes’ tress was wantonly traversed. Their heedless tracks rolled endlessly at will through forest midst and o’er your fecund plains. Aggression’s beast shall never stop until there’s nothing left but misery and bane. Let not your hearts fall victim to defeat though flesh and bone reluctantly concede. A harbor haven beckons a retreat as over ladened battle lines recede. On Gallic soil the blood of soldiers flow as Tricolore is trampled ‘neath the foe. As Tricolore is trampled ‘neath the foe the corners of your world begin to close. The swift attacks continue to bestow a strategy that lends you to his throes. Your columns pressed leave challenge in refute and all resistance fails in disarray, such savagery was never in dispute for nothing hinders vengeance from its prey. But in retreat, abides the gift of time to stall the rush of imminent demise, ‘tis but a breath to ponder French sublime before his retribution claims its prize. When obsolescence failed to reinforce, a swift assault outflanked your bulwark course. A swift assault outflanked your bulwark course. Your allied hopes now scatter in the wind. And though your sons assail with daring force the fires of hell continue to ascend. Your French command capitulates the day then flees the storm, surrendering the spoil. Your English brothers battle t'ward Calais to find their way back home to British soil. But hell awaits their epochal retreat for ships are few and vengeance fills the sky. While English sons anticipate defeat, your sacrificial sons at Lille stand by. As French resolve relinquished Tricolour, such domination fueled this carnivore. Such domination fueled this carnivore. It satisfied an itch to watch you burn. Now British hopes align the Dunkirk shore awaiting Mother England’s swift return. He taunts their ranks with terror from the sky as arching mortars rip at ev’ry nerve. With spitting guns, designed to terrify, nothing dared to press heroic verve. But all who sail shall face the Channel’s wrath as deadly clouds of retribution loom. And too, so few to ferry Satan’s path for many British ships had met their doom. Salvation’s plan must seek another source as allies falter from his Blitzkrieg force.