The Prisoners Left A nervousness; descends upon the room,
The tension you can cut it with a knife,
Forced laughter fails to lift the pending gloom,
All gathered there to witness wanton strife,
The master won his war, the prisoners left,
Departed to a far, far, better place,
Their victory left none behind bereft,
No wound or scar to mar the war torn face,
The ammunition spent and lay discarded,
The casualties all standing in a row,
The master, delusional, retarded,
Indignantly, he watched his armies go,
He won his war with songs of love and hate,
And left his loyal armies to their fate.
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