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Sunday 7th September 2014.

Bubbles have placed the cap in my hand...words spit flow, the fork in the road has many twists the universal soldier sits by the stream and wonders about his age of thirty-one and wonders about the age of seventeen. How many times have i seen the writing on the wall..he's a soldier for a thousand years...and he thinks well'll put an end to war this way...will he pause to to stop and linger over the barbed wire fence, and pluck some sun flowers...will the concrete sky sing, will the clod under the old oak tree, spring into faith..and sing for those at the back who cannot see..and perhaps throw Poo sticks over the rustic bridge of youth i once perhaps stood and looked into myself...or instead Oasis will rant into Cigarettes and Alcohol...oh yes the dark depths of England stil pull up the collar twist into the rain and lope ever onwards in dreams of once was..for there is no more England i once knew...we are political...and we have no voice as the candy man sells his one shop blues..however the lighthouse shines bright and my quest for foot steps in the sand cascade amongst the rocks of life indeed...and i mellow yellow to old to fight the cast off's with only energy to stick Agincourts fingers into oblivion....and whisper So Goeth....for old Hugh himself...

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bichoose

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