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In a hellhole of the world,
In the middle of a fight
The frantic scream of "MEDIC"
comes quavering from the night
In a night made bright by bombs and flares
Splashed with dust and blood and fire
The Doc comes running, stumbling, falling
Crawling through muck and mire.
In his hands are life and death
And his eyes are filled with pain.
His hands are red from blood now shed,
The dead dance in his brain.
But he comes to call anyway,
And will hold a dying hand
And tries to stanch the flow of blood
That puddles in the sand.
He ties off limbs and shoves back guts
And gives morphine for the pain
Has someone hold a flashlight
While he tries to hit a vein
And they die on him anyway
From pain and fear and shock
He curses the day he came to play
On the battlefield as a Doc
But he gathers up his medic bag
And heads out once again
Because the wars just keep on rolling,
And the Doc is always in.
-Silver-
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