The Voice

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.