Scab that you are…
Pretty little thing you are.
Reminiscent of past glories;
Famed lunge searing thru’ thy enemies;
Battle cries and stories shared at the bar.
Touchy and picky existential beauty;
Words escape weary tongues, while fingers feel
with paternal love and impatient expectancy;
To hear of the Charge that won the battle.
Tender touch that finds your finicky edges;
Quivering responses to this bounteous scar.
That awaits escape to a land across the bridges,
And final release from a body weary of war.
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