#1
Battle horror, cannon fodder. The sound of trumpets trumpeting
To the march of the foot-soldier band playing to fallen comrades.
The hum of the birch,
The caressing of the bayonets,
The lavender feel of the blood pouring through his eyes,
The taste of metal in their mouths,
The cornered deer called Enemy,
The eyes of death and the weathered men,
The rings of smoke, signals of death,
The death of me, the death of them,
The death of they, death comes,
Death stays, death devours, death, death,
Death, death, death.


The songs call the tune with the recordist faltering
Two steps behind and he smiles with a benign janitor
Clearing the blood from the mud and the gore
Of the fields, once green, now cerise.
Battleplans etched in firefly signals.

Hark! My heroes have died and I cried
But I faltered by the fountain.
Moreover, the stains of tears turned rust to iron
And the darkness came from the hills of depression…

…flying solo…

Devils of war!
The sound of the clarinets!
The machine of necropsy!
Between the obese and the morose
And the pink carnations and blue roses.
But the king won’t tell the gameplan,
He won’t relax the laws of the state,
He will be the young one,
He is the me, the I.
The myself of partitionment is dead.
#2
Battle horror, cannon fodder. The sound of trumpets trumpeting
trumpets trumpeting? meh.
To the march of the foot-soldier band playing to fallen comrades.
The hum of the birch,
The caressing of the bayonets,
The lavender feel of the blood pouring through his eyes,
The taste of metal in their mouths,
The cornered deer called Enemy,
The eyes of death and the weathered men,
The rings of smoke, signals of death,
The death of me, the death of them,
The death of they, death comes,
they after them in the previous was weak.
Death stays, death devours, death, death,
Death, death, death.


The songs call the tune with the recordist faltering
Two steps behind and he smiles with a benign janitor
Clearing the blood from the mud and the gore
Of the fields, once green, now cerise.
Battleplans etched in firefly signals.

Hark! My heroes have died and I cried
But I faltered by the fountain.
Moreover, the stains of tears turned rust to iron
And the darkness came from the hills of depression…

…flying solo…
This didn't seem to have enough weight to stand on its own.

Devils of war!
The sound of the clarinets!
The machine of necropsy!
Between the obese and the morose
And the pink carnations and blue roses.
But the king won’t tell the gameplan,
tell seems too plain compared to the rest of the language. Would divulge work?
He won’t relax the laws of the state,
He will be the young one,
He is the me, the I.
The myself of partitionment is dead.



I looked up trossrod and all I seemed to get was a perversion of trussrod.
Meadows
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