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Communistboytoy

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  • Member Since

    Oct. 24, 2010
  • Age

    17
  • Website

    www.TacticalEquation.webs.com

Hmm, I’m different, and my life is not about fitting in.
In fact, I’m probably just about everything a “Normal” Person in western society hates, I am the embodiment of what every average human being cannot bring him or herself low or high enough to be, they’re caught right in the middle of being scum and diverse, which I am both of. I do not believe in peace yet I do not believe in war, you might just find me to be indifferent in every way.

In other words, I’m a huge indecipherable cluster fuck of ideals and overeducated nonsense, have fun!
*****************************************
We lived through the fire, the endless cold and the endless desire, the reaping dead and we won with the will of the bold. To fire our rifle and move on, was a chore on its own, as the the muzzle of there guns spread cross our homes. There planes droning, the houses exploding, we won with the will of the bold, and the love of our wives, and the love of our fathers, and he our love for our proud Russia.
Though we fought them, and we were ruined by them, we still hurt by the pain we caused them, as we ripped through their hearts and drove them back, and ripped them apart with our steal and flak.
We did what they said, we fought until we were dead. As us, we wrote this ballade, to tribute to any soldier who have fallen, to praise the cossacks, to praise the living, to surive it and now to switch to giving. Here now, the fire to be always in our eye, to remember the birds that no longer fly, or to forgive the devil, with his wicked wing to bring himself upon temptation to spread his evil through out the meadows. We went through the lake of fire, and we fought through the burning streets, to face our worsted fears for they are still with us, to lay in bed and wake up dead was our first wish, but now to have died before we had to fight is our only yearn.

Tribute to Private Mikhail Rostov my grandpa, this was his favorite song lyric, he died at 10:30 PM on Sunday, April 17th.
*****************************************
There’s a man going around taking names
And he decides who to free and who to blame
Everybody won’t be treated all the same
There’ll be a golden ladder reaching down
When the Man comes around

The hairs on your arm will stand up
At the terror in each sip and in each sup
Will you partake of that last offered cup?
Or disappear into the potter’s ground
When the Man comes around

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers
One hundred million angels singing
Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum
Voices calling, voices crying
Some are born and some are dying
It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree
The virgins are all trimming their wicks
The whirlwind is in the thorn tree
It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks

Till Armageddon no shalam, no shalom
Then the father hen will call his chickens home
The wise man will bow down before the throne
And at His feet they’ll cast their golden crowns
When the Man comes around

Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still
Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still
Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still
Listen to the words long written down
When the Man comes around

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers
One hundred million angels singing
Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum
Voices calling and voices crying
Some are born and some are dying
It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree
The virgins are all trimming their wicks
The whirlwind is in the thorn tree
It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks

In measured hundred weight and penney pound
When the Man comes around.


What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark’d to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian.’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.’ Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

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