Wednesday lost to a battle in dismay
September seventeen, a day birds cry.
Bloodied bodies stacked, unsure of allies.
McClellan arose and began to pray.
Months without stop, the beds were all a fray,
the day seemed like no other, a blue sky
sleeping, inspecting the water supply.
Soldiers unaware of their fate that day.
A single cannon emitted its shot
Blunt fires spread like bleak radiation
The screeches from the wounded were all naught.
Pierced bodies hit the ground with vibration.
Twenty-two thousand, seven seventeen.
Their blood reddened the grass, no longer green.
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