There they go - infidels, rogues
Plucking towns shamelessly;
Minced meat, sooting grills in their wake
And what does the chic do?
She, chief-in-command, is...
Distraught, limp, then cools off.
Timbuktu, Boakye were neighbors
Merry and laughter in tow
But a litter of bleeding girls wail.
The rest are cracked, then armed -
Cannon fodder are sent with fear
Emissaries to chic, from a bloated war.
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