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Bright flashes light up,
the dark December night.
Shrill screams rang out,
from the horses, filled with fright.
And Conor rode in the night.
The heavy wooden rifle,
made for a hard ride.
As slowly it swung, back and forth,
along the young lad’s side.
And the boy continued in the night.
He couldn’t bear to fight,
couldn’t bring himself to kill a man.
So then did he, turn ‘round his horse,
his horse he turned round and ran.
He kept riding into the night.
As he approached the small dark house,
crazy thoughts ran into his head.
Then he couldn’t see, barely could think,
cause both his parents were dead.
He went and road in the night.
He was no longer scared to kill,
he saw a justice that needed to be served.
Ruthless like an outlaw, Conor had transformed,
“It is their fate,” he said, that they deserve.
So Conor, still rode in the night.
“A Hero in the North,”
young Conor became.
So determined his heart,
so perfect his aim.
But he continued to ride in the night.
The war concluded violently,
but Conor’s hunger still remained.
Like a bandit he became and rode to the West,
his mind half crazy, his heart still pained.
Not stopping, he rode in the night.
But there was no place for rookies on the hard dry plains,
and Conor was challenged to a duel.
Though eager in heart, he was lacking in skill,
so Conor came to end by a fatal tool.
No longer, he rode.. in.. the.. night.