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The Young
whistles blare
gun powder in the air
lead pours overhead
I can't wait to feel my bed
I line up my rifle
breathe and squeeze
my orders are to strife
I run empty so I freeze
the quit nights are haunted
this conflict was unwanted
one more tally added; I can't mask it
make sure they spell it right on my casket
Copyright ©
Antonio Guerrero
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