| Rosebuds scattered across the lawn like the squares at Waterloo
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| With bayonets of thorns repelling small children in search of lost tennis balls
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| Imaginary cannonballs that were fired at the legs of galloping cavalry
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| Resting their dreams in the shade of the apple trees
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| Toy soldiers drunk on warm lemonade
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| And the children dream of glory and Fortunes of War
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| Safe in bed with stories of Fortunes of War, Fortunes of War
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| As the sun sets low on these playing fields
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| An army returns bearing swords and shields
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| Dustbin lids and raspberry canes they’ll live to fight another day
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| For warriors medals, milk bottle tops
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| Battle flags fashioned from mother’s old table cloths
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| Bright colours run in the summer rain
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| Sometimes when they fall they will pretend that their hankie is a bandage to
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| stop the bleeding
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| And imagine city streets and desert storms and foreign fields
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| There’s bullets flying, these are the Fortunes of War
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| I heard a wheelchair whisper across a stale, stagnant gymnasium
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| Trailing an ivy league jacket like a matador
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| Through the jitterbug steps of the night before
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| I followed him down to the church parade
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| Where he makes his peace every armistice day
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| I watched him fade away, melt in the autumn rain
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| For sometimes when they fall they can’t pretend
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| That the hankie is a bandage that can’t stop the bleeding
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| They’re out in city streets and desert storms or foreign fields
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| With bullets flying, these are the Fortunes of War
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| While their children dream of glory and Fortunes of War
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| Safe in bed with stories and Fortunes of War
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| Of uniforms and glory, Fortunes of War, Fortunes of War |