we are soldiers beyond hope or prayer.
disappearing boys polka-dotted in red
all mutter the same immortal air:
"this ain't like what the recruiter said."
underneath our sour, curdled skin,
we are just walking sacks of ash.
every radio tune is a battle hymn
and love songs come with epitaphs.
so let me explain to you this war:
god says he's not playing anymore
but he left his toys all over the floor.
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