The Voice
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Though hope retreats, a master seized the reins
to steer his legions straight into the storm.
He stands as stone while motivation wanes
and cityscapes recede beneath the swarm.
For steel, like rain, continues to descend
to test the will of English fortitude.
Incessant rage, persisting without end,
let skies unleash the devil’s turpitude.
Relentless fire with no relief in sight
harass our Brit tenacity to flinch.
But, as it roars we must endure the plight
for British pride surrenders nay an inch.
Let hope be true then soar into the air
to front these raging devils in the mist.
Our British wings shall ride upon a prayer
and all those huddled ‘neath the row, resist.
Though Satan's ire has choked the English sky,
dear London brace as all his angels fall,
for British sons shall front this hell on high
and never cede shall be our battle call.
notes from the "Battle of Britain"
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2024
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