amongst the sob and clubbing of the gunfire Someone, it seems, has time for this,To pluck them from the shallows and wipe out them in burrows And tread the sand upon their nakedness;And each cross, the compulsive stake of tidewood,Bears the last signature of men,Written with such perplexity, with such pose pity,The words choke as they begin Unknown diddly-shit the ghostly pencil Wavers and fades, the purple drips, The breath of the wet flavour has washed their inscriptions As blue as drowned mens lips, Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,Whether as enemies they fought, Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,Enlisted on the other front. El Alamein. Although...If you want to get a full essay, frame it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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