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The cistrens are leakin'
Abandoned ago
The sweetwater now it tastes bitter
The red clay was stained
By the younger man's blood
The furrows he cut they're all flamin'
They were stung by the cold hard Winter of war
The cool clear waters of reality
Nothing can save all the souls of the losers
Not even lives of the winners
Today in the woods
You can smell the decay
A hundred odd score years of life done
The battlements burned
On their acre that day
All that they had was spent or gone
They were stung by the cold hard Winter of war
The cool clear waters of reality
Nothing can save all the souls of the losers
Not even lives of the winners