That awful twenty sixth of November
Every Indian still remember
But what they don't remember are the
Soldiers, who protect and bleed
They are the ones who protect our homes
From all the encroaching enemies
And so they're like those garden gnomes
We don't even have to pay them money
On the border all the time
Fighting with militants, through the slime
Doing such great work, they are
To protect the ones, who're in the bar
They consider the whole nation as their family
And so shed their blood for its peace and safety
Their deaths are a huge loss to the country
But no one even cares especially the gentry
“Useless Soldiers" is an oxymoron
And that's what commenced the writing of this epic
And to teach all those futile morons
That soldiers are anaesthetic, ascetic and angelic
- Thwartful guy
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