Four blocks, yet more to come Derelict hopes are crushed by the Perpetual, cacophonous blast of the Somme. My brethren wail for fears their mothers will pay them a visit. I juxtapose my own existence in this war machine.
(I can hear them in my sleep)
My ears are ringing a ballad, A barber shop quartet echoing; Paradoxβs that fester in the inferno. A ticket to my ever-so soon visit, Rage.
Am I but mere kindling to the flames of the Somme?