Standing in the mud,
crawling through the mist,
the screams of dying, crying men
flowing through the air,
once more they run,
once more they throw themselves against the breach,
under growling thunder of the night,
while limbs of legs and bones,
crack beneath their dirty feet,
running towards pain and honor,
thowing their bodies into waiting swords,
here on the field of Azincourt.
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