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Robert Graves - The Last PostRobert Graves - The Last Post
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The bugler sent a call of high romance—  “Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.  On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,  “God, if it’s this for me next time in France…  O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,  Dead in a row with the other broken ones  Lying so stiff and still under the sky,  Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”
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