They visit, sometimes, in the night
They wander in from the train station's light
The nine ghosts whom we still invite
Who come from the desert of the dead
Where the wind carries gunpowder and the land carries lead
Solid specters, tough and worn
Whose clothes are sometimes burnt and torn
From the land that is dark where the birds are forlorn
But they still smile and they'll sometimes talk
'Till the early hours of the clock
An endless raging war, they say
Brought them here, so far away
From the places that they used to stay
To fight in the name of a meaningless battle
For bombs to be tossed and for bullets to rattle
They speak of a place where looks deceive
Where the dead come back and are never grieved
Where the object is to kill and thieve
And no matter how much or how long they fight
There'll never be a last goodnight
There'll always be more bait to bite
And the Voice will never let them leave
They visit, sometimes, in the night
They wander into Teufort's light
The nine ghosts whom we still invite
Who come from the desert of the dead
Where the wind carries gunpowder and the land carries lead
So... yeah. Poetry.
It's supposed to be from a barkeeper's point of view or something...