The rain pours and they are covered in mud,
hands as buckets, these boys are somewhat blood.
Frosty hands, when the rain becomes ice,
defending the flag, a cold wintery war
soldiers buried in snow and grass
just the roll of the dice.

No CD's spinning or softballs hitting the mit,
a treetop as a houseroof with a small candle lit.
He picks up the soil, a soldiers fighting ground,
a memory, no, but a brothering reminder
he has a clean bullet wound
his friend, his blood brother, now has a grave mound.

He can't just ignore a waterfall of lifesavers,
also killers, but for the good of favors.
A battlefield of knights, pawns, and rooks
one soul purpose, to defend the king
to endeaver to get his safty
each brother of blood, each king, memories in books.

That's tite yo, keepin postin.