T-Bone

Друзі, брати та сестри.
Пані та панове.
Хлопці та дівчата.
Дуже прошу, тупо благаю, припиніть повторювати дичину про "для наступу необхідна чисельна перевага у три-п'ять разів" і "наступаючи за статистикою несуть в три рази більше втрат, ніж ті, що обороняються".
Ні, не необхідна. Ні, такого закону статистики немає і не було ніколи.
Бо я бляха оскаженію скоро таке читати.

Дякую.

Есть у меня давно на примете банда канадских панков. Делают они смесь, что неудивительно, панка, кельтики и матросских песен Нового времени. И еще много пишут про Первую мировую.
И получалось у них иногда очень хорошо, вот так:


He was just 18
When he saw her smiling face
As she danced along the streets of Montreal
And in 1916
She gave her hand for him to hold
In the church beneath the ancient city walls

But now he lies awake, staring in the dark
At the eyes of of million tiny gods
And when the sun goes up, they'll go over the top, for good….

So he writes her Black Letters
By the time you read these words
There will be no more war
There will be only peace

He was her only son
And she rocked him back and forth
In the cradle of the tall Alberta grain
And he was scarce a man
When he answered the call
Left her crying as as he stepped onto the train

And she was all alone, staring at the moon
When his body hit the sand beneath Calais
And when the sun came up, his words were on the steps for her
And she read his black letters…

The day will come
Where we look into the eyes
Of a fate that is much greater than us all
And by the setting sun
We'll write the words we'd wish to echo
In the hearts of our loved ones should we fall
Those thin dark lines, so delicate and fine,
Like a road that could show the way back home
But at the ending of the day, our memories will fade for good
Except for our black letters

( если что, смысл примерно такой: )