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Poem	I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge. When I felt the bullet enter my heart I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail For stealing the hogs of Curl Trenary, Instead of running away and joining the army, Rather a thousand times the county jail Than to lie under this marble figure with wings, And this granite pedestal Bearing the words 'Pro Patria.' What do they mean, anyway?
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