France III

As allies falter from his Blitzkrieg force, the blood of British sons infuse the sand. They pray their brothers front the Channel’s course for they have failed to gain the upper hand. And, so they wait as devastation rides upon a horse the Devil painted red. They watch in angst as hope and hell collide thus, knowing not if promise lies ahead. As desperation ferried through the wind their urgent prayers would find a patron’s ear, and British pride would bring them home again on any vessel faith could commandeer. The second seal unleashed him at your door, all hope abides along the Dunkirk shore. All hope abides along the Dunkirk shore. Your Gallic front concedes against the rows of armored demons beckoning their roar and thus, consuming all that hell bestows. Your shining light, a beacon through the age, a luminaire in summer’s sweet review, stands tall and prim against the pending rage as fatal debts from apathy come due. But summer sweet succumbs to tempest winds that quell the brilliance of her light’s allure. ‘Tis harrowing, for summer’s solace ends as Paris huddles ‘neath the storm’s rancour. His angels from the depths of hell extol, this world shall face a beast without a soul. This world shall face a beast without a soul and every breath shall whisper him by name. Through prophecy, he seeks to gain control with rhetoric that promises acclaim. ‘Tis mere disguise that veils this devil’s will to gather lambs that render his delight, for such a beast shall never stop until his followers surrender to the night. So, be not swayed by charismatic ruse nor oratory bellowing demands, ‘tis but a ploy a charlatan will use to mold his flock to be the devil’s hands. The gods of peace begin to lose control. as aspiration seeks to take its toll. As aspiration seeks to take its toll, his tyranny was set upon reprise. A fascist gloat aligned his vitriol to fortify this devil in disguise. His feckless forces stormed a fertile land that filled a horn a continent away. ‘Twas but a shill ineptitude demands when fawning to keep Satan's will at bay. But sycophants are puppets on a string that dance whene’er a devil pulls it taut, and fascist dolts who kiss this despot’s ring shall never find fraternity so sought. As allied bonds and axis pacts convolve, an emptiness is left with no resolve. An emptiness is left with no resolve from hence the war where trust in treaties quail, thus, from its ashes, vile regimes evolve as all the world stands by to watch us fail. Your nation’s dream, once altered by demise, let hope rely upon the Maginot. ‘Tis but a flaw a beast will compromise as Tricolore is trampled ‘neath the foe. A swift assault outflanked your bulwark course. Such domination fueled this carnivore. As allies falter from his Blitzkrieg force all hope abides along Dunkirk shore, This world shall face a beast without a soul as aspiration seeks to take its toll. This War of Sons Chapter 3, “France”