Wednesday, August 08, 2012

The Final Terminus

The war is o'er, we're going home;
We've disconnected from the front.
There are no newer maps to roam
And no more cursèd spies to hunt.

No ducking under snipers' shots,
No more of those quick overruns;
No need to flee from one-eyed Scots,
Nor fear the howling sentry's guns.

No need to call over to heal,
Nor dread the clinging, deadly flame.
No fish or sandvich for our meal;
It's all the rage to quit this game.

From here we'll all walk our own ways;
From time's attack there's no defence.
We'll pick a class and give our days
To capturing intelligence.

But we did great things, back in our prime:
We launched a monkey into space!
The rocket jumped up over time,
And pushed the payload, won the race.

We formed a clan; the world we'd taunt!
A dominating, killing spree.
We never had much loot to flaunt,
But still one big, mad famiry.

There was no thought, back at the start,
That one day we'd run out of Steam.
We all have pushed the little cart;
We all were credits to the team.

Perhaps one day, at our own leisure,
We'll meet again to fight the fight.
But mentlegen, it's been a pleasure
To have played with you tonight.


Unless it's a farm,
The Edna Man

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