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    Tell me, Muse, of the high hearted boy who shoots the orange flyer birds.
    He looked upon his squadmates, bodies ridden with fatigue from the many shots before.
He could feel their pain as he to was fatigued from this long day.
though fatigued he still  strode  to get to his goal, to win a belt buckle.
Though he hoped the same for his squadmates:
their inaccuracy was pointing them in the wrong direction.
The boy though had the helping words of his well-minded father,
Who knew the way to help the boy with his struggles.
Tell me, Muse, of the boy in his next days,
Practicing when he could and practicing hard
When the others, who had little to mind and little to lose 
Went homebound without the slightest thought of winning on their mind,
But the thought of their failure that day plaguing their minds for weeks to come.
 






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