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Defeat is not an Option
Lay siege to the open seas of their souls,
Let our bullets and glinting sharp edges plunge into the hearts of those who deserve to die, and not into those who die deservingly,
Let our weaponry pierce their mortal bodies as the flames of war rise at their feet and scorch the very core of their beings,
Kill those who have killed and slay those who have slain,
Burn the cities of the rebel cause with the ferocity of our vicious battle cries,
But neither weep upon their dying bodies nor laugh at the losing foes, for non-essential sympathy shall be your downfall, and demoralizing pride shall be your demise,
Let live no being who would've done just as you do, for that shall too be your ruination,
Look yonder son, and you will soon get a whiff of the horribly wretched mix of blood and sweat and an oncoming victory merging sourly with dirt and conflagration and passion,
And the ashes, charred ruins of the enemy's people, will blister your skin and leave scars and remembrance of this combat,
And our legs will grown numb from the continuous retreat of our adversary as we trudge, ascending the hills of hell where falling back or descending is neither an option nor will it be our choice,
The wreckage and rubble that lay strewn across the land from this wretched battle will recall war accounts for all those who defy ignorance,
And then again, even in the midst of the naïve and bliss, our screams and kills will be known to all man, hither and thither, driving into their spirits our abilities and attempts,
Blood will be thrown onto the streets of the innocent like confetti from the celebration we shall hope to soon after throw, and whose blood shall it be we know not, but whether 'tis be we're the cause, or we have caused it, the rabid message will be known to all that we fought with our lives on our sleeves,
And if your lives mayhap flash before your tear-stained eyes, may an epiphany of our oncoming victory be in its glorious phase upon you,
And their masses of guns and cannons cannot defeat our bloodied hearts as we rage on the inevitable war of man's narcissism and sheer arrogance,
The smoke that chokes the air in its entirety cannot do justice where 'tis not allocated, for none of us deserve this evenhandedness-victory, or defeat,
But when they step upon enemy territory, their hearts are ours to crush, for war is war and triumph wholly overrides defeat in all aspects of life and death,
And men, be it may that we scream defeat and lie lifeless on the floor, or in the hands of the enemy siege, we did what all we possibly could,
We will have massacred countless,
We will have reigned on too much enemy territory to ever fathom; the sovereignty of their nation would have been entirely ours for the taking, had we not fallen in ignominy,
Our daggers and bullets would have pierced as much armor as a man's ever could,
But verily alas, if loss be ours, we must hold our heads down in unadulterated shame,
For our efforts were worthless and our sorrowed souls could not protect our wounded children,
Whilst we lay dying in the aqueducts, and the water washes over our open wounds and blood mixes with the pure-who shall protect the weak?
But, if we lose, shall we not be the weak moreover?
Shall we not be as frail and scrawny as those we thought we were defending?
Shall the enemy and their masters not have had an entire advantage, for we were nothing more than they were even as they were babies?
What will we have become during this entire battle but more and more insulting to ourselves and our people?
Who are we and how could we have stood here conversing of warfare and victory and then end in the sickest defeat a man could ever imagine?
Who, I must then ask, who will protect the weak if we are to lose?
If we try and fail, we are as weak as they, but fought notwithstanding, and our efforts will be miserably blundered,
So think of your loved and cherished ones, I tell you now as you step out onto that battlefield, arms drawn in attempt to swindle the enemy,
Think of your loved ones as you put on your armor with sheer bravery and pride, because with these hearts dripping with passion, defeat is not option,
No, men, defeat is not even an option as our unbreakable feet hit that fresh, untainted soil,
And even with swords thrust into our hearts and open wounds searing with infections and eyes full of dirt and sin, we shall fight on,
And in glory our sins will be washed away and grandeur will live in our veins forever and again,
Defeat shall not be the last words hitherto on our lips as our lives end and ourselves depart this life with a cruel death, steam rising from our bodies and dirt engulfing our decaying bodies,
Because, men, even if our souls depart our bodies today and we never see the end of the battle except from up above with drinks in our hands and jeers on our faces, we must leave victoriously.
Defeat is not an option today, men.