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The AFGHANIST
He is seated next to that wicked war,
With his thought bent on killing for pride.
He does not smile when peace comes near,
And always thirsty for cool blood to drink.
He knows the way to the grave,
And by his tricks the innocent are trapped.
Dear to his hands are weapons of war,
Which scare away the nations' strength.
Friends he has not who hate rebellion,
For our downfall they plan all in unity.
He is drunk with the Spirit of Violence,
That arch-enemy of calm and tranquility.
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