I am a drafted soldier. I have been since age four. I've known nothing less, but also nothing more. Lore, love, in the fairytales. Our willing minds awoken, our stealth is surely broken. A token, from my mother, in my hand. Oh, I hate that wicked woman, but her token helps me stand in the sand of my own being. But it wasn't all my fault. For this soldier, drafted soldier, was forced into this vault. This disgusting, unfairity to fight a war despicably, and all but in a fantasy does this lore so lay.
Hay, which I've provided for our horses is just laying in stalls all cold and covered snow because the horses are not home and the birds and squirts aren't hungry. The dead, you see, can't eat. The mouths are rotting off, and they can't walk without their feet.
I'm hanging in the gallows, my body limp and lifeless, yet I'm not numb and I'm not dead, but paralleled to priceless. Tattered clothes and open weapon sitting at my feet, surrounded by my fortune, an invisible fleet of thousands soldiers to come and save my world, only they're all gone and left, and I'm alone to whirl.
Lost and in ponder, my soul frolics so freely yet tangled in the chains that forever bind it to me. I am a crucifixion, on display for all to see that the silly drafted soldier fought ever so blindly.
I find it funny, how they laugh. They're far more blind than I. The way the cackling parents let their tiny baby cry. The very cold thought that strikes me that that child just will die. A death from father's hands is a death they all pass by.
The guardians are liars, they'll only slit your throat and you'll believe it fair and square once you're buried in their mote. They'll disgrace you and abuse you and hurt you 'till your red, and once you drop and have given up, they'll laugh until you're dead.
I am a drafted soldier, I've watched the guards all fight. they hit and killed and yelled and willed and gave punish to the night. I am a drafted soldier, and I've seen far too much. The things they done and said and swore have broken up my touch. I'll be forever sorry that they never got along, but I'm a drafted soldier, and I've done nothing wrong
I am not a drafted soldier. I haven't been since ninety four. I've known nothing less, but also nothing more. Lore, love, in the fairytales. Our willing minds awoken, our stealth remains unbroken. A token, from my mother, in my hand. Oh, I love that lively woman, but her token doesn't help me stand in the sand of my own being. It was all my fault. For this not-soldier, undrafted not-soldier, wasn't forced into this vault. This disgusting, unfairity to fight a war despicably, and all but in reality does this lore so lay.
