Design on wings just barely back, so close was death in Shiloh; so close the breath of lovers left the field dressed down from battle. And later on we rode the wind on angels' wings, and backward-looking eyes of steel were all we had to keep the sounds from hearts of stone that never feel the shadows of a nightmare world. It hasn't changed, it doesn't change, and voices still the sacrifice of blood and tears and mothers' fears that once again the dogs will snarl and snap the breath from only sons. I'll ask once more for wooden stakes to drive into the fucking ground, but please I beg that first they go hard through the chest of Satan's whore; that cemeteries turn from being homes to children killed in war.