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On a Cold November Morn The bells are tolling down Never ceasing The grave beckons, but he is not thinking of that now He thinks of his buddies markers Row upon row upon row In a field of poppies red in sharp contrast against the white Red meant blood long ago His blood. His buddies blood ending life by one sharp object His grizzled face is etched with furrows of pain as he listens to the sounds of a wailing horn blowing taps He stands rigid in the cold wind, as his tears lay frozen on his cheeks He has not forgotten Next year he may |
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