They're some strange kind of warrior,

Drunk on defeat,

Undeserving of recollection, recognition,

Or the seventy virgins who await them in hallowed halls to

wet their lips with wine.

And their thirst, as fragile as their satisfaction

Is quenched as the warriors whisper

"Next time, next time".

They will lie amongst the silk as they always do,

Not questioning predictions or promises,

Handing over ribbon-wrapped morning glories

And wishing on a twist of fate.

Oh, poor darlings, this is a dangerous game,

And these warriors would cheat their gods and demons

For a second bit of belief.

They'll promise you the seven seas

And every little grassy mound in between

But never today,

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'll have the world.