The men were here to get your Belgian things
They'll store them for you in an airplane hangar
There's guys in biohazard suits
Mud kicking on their rubber boots
They've come to keep your pretty things from danger
The men were here to get your Belgian things
They'll spend the whole day hauling them downstairs
I shot a roll of thirty-two exposures
My camera groans beneath the weight it bears
I can see you in my sleep
Playing the points for all you're worth
Walking gingerly across the bruised earth
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