Dead Soldiers
Alas the poor cabernet
Farewell tasty Shiraz
Gone a Sanguine way
They did pass
All gone Pinot Noir
They’ve given all
Between half past four
And moon fall
Scattered in the grass
What to do
But raise our glass
Toasting them too
Dead Soldiers
Alas the poor cabernet
Farewell tasty Shiraz
Gone a Sanguine way
They did pass
All gone Pinot Noir
They’ve given all
Between half past four
And moon fall
Scattered in the grass
What to do
But raise our glass
Toasting them too
ginga commented on Dead Soldiers
10-28-2009
10/28/2009
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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