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Letter from 1944
What valour you carry young pal?
A crystal rank in Valorant?
Ever heard your land's call?
Ever war-cry have you chant?
Fancy guns you use in glass box,
Never have known its recoil in hand,
Lies on bed like a soldier carrying pox,
What you know of making a friend?
Your fans, your followers, those who like your stories,
So shallow, so dumb, or, I say perfect foes?
Friends are those who shoulder your glories,
In grey skies, they lit a cigar and come close.
Young boy, so ridden with comfort that ready to throw dreams,
Have no visions, have no senses, have no marks on skin,
So busy with headphones, that ignore god's screams,
Saying he suffers, but making jzz making kin.
© All Rights Reserved
A crystal rank in Valorant?
Ever heard your land's call?
Ever war-cry have you chant?
Fancy guns you use in glass box,
Never have known its recoil in hand,
Lies on bed like a soldier carrying pox,
What you know of making a friend?
Your fans, your followers, those who like your stories,
So shallow, so dumb, or, I say perfect foes?
Friends are those who shoulder your glories,
In grey skies, they lit a cigar and come close.
Young boy, so ridden with comfort that ready to throw dreams,
Have no visions, have no senses, have no marks on skin,
So busy with headphones, that ignore god's screams,
Saying he suffers, but making jzz making kin.
© All Rights Reserved
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