We battle our masters
with laughter that shatters
the perception of contrasting stature.
A giggle is a stave through the heart of catastrouphy.
But we hide behined tears,
that resemble embers to our skin.
but they feel like sheilds of ritiusness pined to our bodies.
The ashes will fall on all the marred corpses.
The dust will settle on the overlords, and the servents alike,
and nobody will be able to tell the difference.
As the dead are counted we will all be listed.
All through out the battle ground,
let laughter sound, and peirce these burrial mounds.
Let it be like a clap, or cannon rounds in the surounding scilence.
as we go tumbling into another dark age,
let us not go down without the evidence of effort.
Our tomorrow is becoming a gamble.
But our today is yet to end.