This gun is smoking.
Whirring sounds above my head didn't sound like what I'd expected.
I'm in my foxhole, and I'm scared.
When I was young I'd think about this.
It was simple to come to a conclusion, about living, about dying.
And might and sharp cunning skill carried the day and adulation,
and fruits of all endeavors toiled at the surpassing of others.
But I have shown myself what I can do.
And I'm in my foxhole, now and again.
I'm scared, because nowadays I level my gun and pull the trigger,
They die, and I do too.
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