MANY SOLDIES WILL FALL IN THIS BATTLE OF HELL.
FALLEN BY A BULLET, OR A SHARD OF SCHRAPNEL.
MANY WILL PRAY HARD TO SURVIVE THIS DEADLY
GAME.
ONLY TO FIND THAT A BULLET WAS WEARING THEIR
NAME,

THE GODS OF WAR MUST HAVE THEIR WAY.
FOR ALL THE SOLDIERS THAT WILL FALL TODAY.
MANY WILL BREATHE THEIR FIL BREATH.
FOR THOSE THAT FALL WILL BE EMBRACED BY
THE PHANTOM OF DEATH.

MANY WILL FALL IN THE NOON DAY SUN.
AND MANY WILL BE TORN APART BY A
DEADLY GUN.
THE STENCH OF DEATH HANGS OVER HE
FIELD OF BATTLE.
WHERE BODIES LIE EVERYWHERE, LIKE
BUTCHERED CATTLE.

THE BATTLEFIELD IS BATHED IN RED AND
ROTTING BLOOD.
IT SATURATES THE GROUND AND TURNS TH
EARTH TO RED MUD.
ALL THESE SOLDIERS DIED VERY VALLIANTLY.
AND NOW THEY LIE SLEEPING TO DEATHS
SYMPHONY.

THESE SOLDIERS HAVE GIVEN ALL THAT THEY
COULD.
AND NOW A CROSS OR A STAR NOW STANDS
WHERE A SOLDIER ONCE STOOD.