They’ll lift us from beneath the wreckage
Remove our bodies from the fray
While fire and thunder from the cannons
Escort us on our final way.
And telegrams will set a-flying
To notify our next of kin:
Your son will never be returning
On leave he won’t be stopping in
His mother wails in the corner
His father swats a creeping tear
His love will never know for certain
What fate befell her tanker dear
A photo on her shelf will linger
Among the yellowed books forlorn
In tanker’s garment, epaulets on
And fiancé to her no more
Там контента гораздо больше, чем в самом блоге.
Звукоизвращенец, пикчекрад и боянистЪ... 