my father once called me a madman, pain and fear in his eyes. what had his beloved son become. a walking skeleton, a death only temporarily postponed. what will you do, he asked, when there is nowhere left to run?i didnt know. he begged me to leave town, to never come home. this is whAt its come to. hiding like a street punk coward, in the last
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For i knew to much yet I had no means to share what I knew
I run far away and, I went from one party to the next all the while trying to forget.
As each day blended into another I was once again responsible the the knowledge of death
and now my soul has almost bled to death
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Out of loyalty and love.
We sacrafised them knowingly playing polical games.
There lives for cash and our nations long term viability.
Well they fought, we pay them tribute for that
For they could never have achieved anyhing greater for they are degenerative in education.
I guess we are not far removed from the Kamakzee pilots
They wore helmets in vain
Our soldier wore helmets sohat we did not need to recycle them as often
The difference being they trade lives only for honour
We trade lives for money and honour.
I think I can live with that.
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my honor is not for sell.
but everything else here is.
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