In the early Winter morn, in the Seargent's footsteps,
They followed on the burned, barren earth,
A place so strange, but so familiar, he looked around,
A sign lies, on the naked land, "St. George Vill.", it read,
In a frenzy, he wondered at the town that made him,
Now buried in its own grave,
While his Comrades rested their tired...
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