Sunday, March 15, 2009


They're selling little flags, I'm told,
By the wall with the names of our dead.
Where the letters are etched with yellow gold,
And the faces that seek there, with dread.

And scholars come, when the weather is good,
To discuss the old battles anew,
But these little know who ran, or who stood,
Or who was it cried out "Sov-ki-poo!"

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