Thank You, Whatever Your Reservations

Up in arms they go, bold
To glorious worlds, so told
And come home dreary
With eyes cold and weary.

For fortunes they fought
And poetry they wrought
But chills they caught
And sympathy they got.

Love, some yearned.
Love, fewer earned.
Brothers, they had and lost
–Among the spurned cost.

Still, two or three days we laid rest
And tried to care for their quest.
They bare the price, not our state.
We sleep without contest and dream, so–too simply–


Lay an Egg

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