To Now Sharpen the Blade On Wet Flint
The mead warmed the belly
The songs eased the mind
The frown lines disappeared
The friends lost in battle!
Earned a salute to be cheered
Boots with soles worn thin
Cuts left to heal in the wind
To now sharpen the blade on wet flint
To make ready to fight for the new fu#king King!
Copyright © A Yorkshire Poet | Year Posted 2016
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