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And here I thought rations was scarce.
The old dude is lucky to have survived. My father's 50 cal musket is dead on accurate, and it will kill you. It leave a big hole going in, and a bigger one going out.
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Wrap me up in my old flying jacket,
And give me a joystick to hold, to hold,
And I'll soar once again o'er the trenches
And thus shall my exploits be told.
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