Salute.

I guess the issue is that I'm dead sick.
My hand may never unbend. It still looks trigger-ready.
I'm psychotic in the way that I can only hear bombs.
I feel snakes dancing around my face all night -
They're attracted to the constant bass in my ears.

I can only hear where we left off.
The last words that I remember? "Fuck, they got Richard!"
Richard was next to me. I'm on the floor, bleeding,
Talking to shrapnel,
But who cares? They got Richard!
Damn.
He got flown home in a box with a flag,
I got red paper. Metal. Drag.

They give me ribbons,
I'm just another best in show.

Me? I guess I'm the lucky one.
I've got this badge where your voice should be,
And I can't hear what anybody's saying,
But I know that it's about Richard.
Number two-hundred.
For once I wish I could be another statistic.
He made headlines. I made a mess.

Have you frogotten about me, Britannia?