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Through blackened sky the blazing missiles fly;
projectiles screaming down to pound our shield.
The raging sound can't drown our battle cry:
"We'll never yield! We'll never cede this field!"
Our precious tract attacked, by fate begrudged.
We'll not go back, we stand where strength has stood.
Our valour born of soil and sweat: a sludge;
a thick and ruddy mud of earth and blood.
We fend off every brutal salvo thrown
by nature's forces; we are not coerced.
Entrenched until the firestorm has blown,
enduring 'til that bitch has done its worst.
Engaged armada in a sea of shells,
our unit floats a lake of mortar swells.

16 Mar 07

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such perfect timing
(in more ways than one).
 — unknown

your rhythm is real good, real good.

how about

'We will never yield, never cede this field!'

same with line 6

We will not go back, and stand where strength has stood.

what itched was 'bitch'. is all.

nice, nice poem.
 — varun

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