Ratta tat tat,
the gunshots fire.
The smell of flesh
from a burning pyre.
A bloody spray
tints the mist.
A dead man clenches
his cold, white fist.
The cost of honour
is stained red hands,
the mental burden
of killing a man.
Ratta tat tat,
the gunshots sound,
and every last soldier
is on the ground.
the gunshots fire.
The smell of flesh
from a burning pyre.
A bloody spray
tints the mist.
A dead man clenches
his cold, white fist.
The cost of honour
is stained red hands,
the mental burden
of killing a man.
Ratta tat tat,
the gunshots sound,
and every last soldier
is on the ground.
