Rapid rifles, fearful aim
from secret, secure nests,
They select a random target,
blow holes into his chest.
The medic cradles gently,
Dour comrades bid good night.
Close his eyes, collect his tags,
prepare his box for flight.
Now home- a name and number,
the bugle blares farewell.
Mourners clutch the folded flag
he earns for where he fell.
Rigid rifles, solemn aim,
assault a steel blue sky.
Great...
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