What an awe-inspiring end to such a known to be lost battle. My heart sank when our champion cut his own throat as the crowd whispered “none ground deserves this amphetaminical red“.
Pagan effusiveness; dancing and beating. Our restraining God is yelling above our wild dogs’ celebration, but the petty officer is yet turning black and blue all over. We’ll bare their storyteller for a blacksmith; we’ll restate History through hammers and steel. People and soft-covers deserve some great feat of arms, not a portentous mutiny.
A punched truth and a bunch of men soaking up for the sun, with blanks to fill in. There are overtones of rough estimates in our legend, don’t let some chime in during the play. Scepticism calls hard times.
Oh dear children, a few dear hunters don’t stand for a garrison. In a gingerly fashion we take the road again, we have facings to ruin. But God love his rotters and we’ll make this kingdom ours. Someday.
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