On another occasion, we got sent out⏎ to tackle looters raiding a bank.⏎ And one of them legs it up the road,⏎ probably armed, possibly not.⏎ Well myself and somebody else and somebody else⏎ are all of the same mind,⏎ so all three of us open fire.⏎ Three of a kind all letting fly, and I swear⏎ I see every round as it rips through his life -⏎ I see broad daylight on the other side.⏎ So we've hit this looter a dozen times⏎ and he's there on the ground, sort of inside out,⏎ pain itself, the image of agony.⏎ One of my mates goes by⏎ and tosses his guts back into his body.⏎ Then he's carted off in the back of a lorry.⏎ End of story, except not really.⏎ His blood-shadow stays on the street, and out on patrol⏎ I walk right over it week after week.⏎ Then I'm home on leave. But I blink⏎ and he bursts again through the doors of the bank.⏎ Sleep, and he's probably armed, and possibly not.⏎ Dream, and he's torn apart by a dozen rounds.⏎ And the drink and the drugs won't flush him out -⏎ he's here in my head when I close my eyes,⏎ dug in behind enemy lines,⏎ not left for dead in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land⏎ or six-feet-under in desert sand,⏎ but near to the knuckle, here and now,⏎ his bloody life in my bloody hands.🏁
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On another occasion, we got sent out⏎ to tackle looters raiding a bank.⏎ And one of them legs it up the road,⏎ probably armed, possibly not.⏎ Well myself and somebody else and somebody else⏎ are all of the same mind,⏎ so all three of us open fire.⏎ Three of a kind all letting fly, and I swear⏎ I see every round as it rips through his life -⏎ I see broad daylight on the other side.⏎ So we've hit this looter a dozen times⏎ and he's there on the ground, sort of inside out,⏎ pain itself, the image of agony.⏎ One of my mates goes by⏎ and tosses his guts back into his body.⏎ Then he's carted off in the back of a lorry.⏎ End of story, except not really.⏎ His blood-shadow stays on the street, and out on patrol⏎ I walk right over it week after week.⏎ Then I'm home on leave. But I blink⏎ and he bursts again through the doors of the bank.⏎ Sleep, and he's probably armed, and possibly not.⏎ Dream, and he's torn apart by a dozen rounds.⏎ And the drink and the drugs won't flush him out -⏎ he's here in my head when I close my eyes,⏎ dug in behind enemy lines,⏎ not left for dead in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land⏎ or six-feet-under in desert sand,⏎ but near to the knuckle, here and now,⏎ his bloody life in my bloody hands.🏁