Well this was lost because of the constant crashing of TR so I thought I'd put it back up since there's no more problem.
I found an army, they keep their heads, down in the trenches,
Puddles of blood scattered on the land, drowned in the inches,
Empty shells, in the playground, they're found on the benches,
Its Christmas morning, gunshots are the sound of the Grinches,
On both sides of the soaked field, each of the shaky hands kill,
Its almost as if the lonely falling raindrops are at a stands still,
Can you see each of the trees in the forest, the lonely wood rots,
Can you stop the destruction, by thinking only good thoughts,
I hear the soldiers chant, holding up what their shoulders can't,
They say in the most monotonous tone, my shoes have no soles,
Our laces no heart, and each of the muddy grooves have no holes,
Play a chess game every knight, each of my moves have no goals,
Weathered Bibles and Korans grasped, in prayer, four hands clasped,
They tell of their wins and losses columns, of their sins and crosses,
They told me they lost at king of the hill, yet their spirit will sing still,
Their bodies filled with ainst of war, they know how a wasp's stings feel,
The art of war, is not always seen as soon as you, start a war,
The part of gore, filling streets, war is what killing greets,
The art of war, give your heart to more, to see down in the trenches,
I want to make a consensus of the men, down in the trenches,
And all I hear are grenade explosions, and see white flash bangs,
The constant bullets, whistlin' by, and see the crashed planes,
Debris over here and there, like animal scat, its clearer where,
Freedom bellows in the background, attack now, I see her stair,
I see the growing tyrants in my mirror's glair, its chases my tail,
But I'm like a giddy dog, but I know glory, always erases my fail,
It tastes quite stale, black boots on target, my laces might bale,
On my head a helmet, crossing fields its like a crown of thorns,
So I kill all against me, in proximity, I'm devilish, I found the horns,
Down in the trenches, in the wooden bases, and in the fox holes,
Where its always hell on earth, the sinner dwells in the inner hells,
And it locks souls, and in the bitter cold weather, and the old leather,
Becomes the only protection, from the changing rain, snow, or hail,
And on insides that still cracked mind, your brain grows a tail,
They pull triggers, with untrimmed nails, and fingertips eroded,
Voice silenced, but echoes of still waters and singer lips wrote it,
The art of war, is not always seen as soon as you, start a war,
The part of gore, filling streets, war is what killing greets,
The art of war, give your heart to more, to see down in the trenches,
I want to make a consensus of the men, down in the trenches,
I see fathers that take on a country, like they're shoulder pads,
And every year, I see the boys get younger, and older dads,
I see family members mourning, 'til morning, mothers crying,
Some try to comfort them, if they can't, I see others trying,
Sisters in need, they sit and worry while her brothers dying,
I've seen bloody battles, muddy saddles, the puddle shakes,
At the rusty roaring machines, and even the subtle wakes,
And the muddy torn uniform, will be worn soon to warm,
How long until it can't be worn, how long until its full of holes,
How long until each bloody battle of this war, stole the souls,
How long are these endless trenches, will the tunnels ever end,
I see nothing but emotionless soldiers, its like they never grinned,
Always ready to charge into battle, never to large for their saddle,
With swords drawn, the battle rages on, it always ignores dawn,
War will always perpetuate, are you sure it let's you wait,
Because we are all fish waiting, and guess who sets the bait,
The art of war, is not always seen as soon as you, start a war,
The part of gore, filling streets, war is what killing greets,
The art of war, give your heart to more, to see down in the trenches,
I want to make a consensus of the men, down in the trenches,