Crimson Spray

Thanks to America, there are British Soldiers dying out in Afghanistan, politics suck, but the soldiers need someone on their side.  It easy to mush war with Politics, but families have their own politics, and unlike soldiers like Achilles, Beowulf etc, this isn't a mythology and their names will not be written in history.

 

Time doesn't hold a pen, the story unfolds anyway,

The scribe sits upon the fence, watching as we waste and fade

Into this empty void that fills us all,

Among the banished souls where we walk tall.

We are ordinary men, with normal dreams and aspirations,

We fight til we are spent, lying down amongst the hell that,

Holds a candle burning as we crawl.

The Reaper harvests with no bias at all.

 

(Chorus)

So let up that flag we're coming down among the,

Haze and crimson spray,

We will march on through it all until the,

Light returns to day.

And who comes home?  Who really knows,

What the families have to say?

Until the newspapers call.

 

The images you see, projected through a biased box of,

Tricks and irony. Life as a form of entertainment.

So focussed on tea and busy lives.

The reaper's busy here so you're alright.

 

(Chorus)

So let up that flag we're coming down among the,

Haze and crimson spray,

We will march on through it all until the,

Light returns to day.

And who comes home?  Who really knows,

What the families have to say?

Until the newspapers call.

(instrumental)

 

We are ordinary men, with ordinary dreams and aspirations,

The scribe sits upon the face, watching as you watch us and,

You follow us as flickers on your wall.

The Reaper harvests with no remorse at all.

 

(Chorus)

So let up that flag we're coming down among the,

Haze and crimson spray,

We will march on through it all until the,

Light returns to day.

And who comes home?  Who really knows,

What the families have to say?

Until the newspapers call.

The End

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