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Daddy's Little GirlDaddy's Little GirlDaddy's Little Girl
Verse 1:
The thund'ring harshness of his words Echo in her ears The cruel contortion of his face is Burned into her fragile mind The taste of blood's upon her lips From a smack across her innocent face The rancid stench of alcohol Remains searing in her nose.
Bridge:
If this is his love She'd not wanna see his hate If this is all her life'll be Then for death, she just can't wait
Chorus:
She can't call herself his anymore All of his love flitted out the door All he does is hu


The Shepherd - Part IIISean leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, clasping a hand over his eyes as if to obscure the sleeping form of Gayle from his view. It didn’t seem like long ago that they’d met – it had, in fact, been almost seven years now. Hart permitted himself a wan smile as he lost himself fondly in recollection. “I remember when yeh first met,” he mused to himself with a quiet laugh. “Captain didn’t quite know what ta make of yeh, did he, Shep?” It was true. They had met her on the streets, not long after London had been attacked by the Kaltari. She was a feisty, angry young woman who was terrified for her life and her survival. She’dThe Shepherd - Part III


The Shepherd - Part II* * *The Shepherd - Part II
It had been a week since Liam had left. The lingering scent of his cologne and aftershave, the feel of his large, calloused hands running down her arms, were beginning to fade from Gayle’s memory. His eyes, though – beautiful and blue – she could never forget.
She stared out the window of her bedroom which was on the third floor of the base. The mission statement said that he should have returned yesterday – they’d lost contact sometime yesterday morning. Gayle had not left her vigil since then. She stared out at the decimated spires of London’s buildings, throat tight with the effort of holding everything in.


The Shepherd - Part 1“Shepherd? ‘Ey Shep, where are yeh?”The Shepherd - Part 1
Gayle adjusted her ear piece and pressed the hardened foam more snugly into her ear when she heard Sean Hart’s rumbling baritone, thickly laden with his Irish accent, speak her fieldname. Keeping her voice low as she peered over the barricade, she mumbled, “Relax, Wolf. I’m here.”
“Where?” “Behind post C.”
“Hold on, I’ll be right over there.” Gayle’s lips parted to speak her assent; she froze, crouching lower behind the piled bags of sand. “No, Wolf. Hold your position. I see something.” Gayle hefted her gun, resting it carefully atop the barri
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~Sailing by Christopher Cross
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