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Songwriter, guitarist and composer

Songwriter, guitarist and composer

Second Born of Five


An anti-war analogy told from the point of view of a dog bred to fight.


Second born of five, the last to find the light that greeted four to stay alive,

But the first to understand the nature needed to survive

when three other mouths like mine scream for my share.

With a mark bestowed by God across his face 

the eldest claimed authority, the others learned their place

but I never bowed my head to his imaginary grace

and matched each and every second of his glare.

And I never dropped my guard, but after every fight there grew a delicate regard.

Territories blurred and some semblance of pardon

sealed the signatures of tooth and claw we shared.


Without warning they arrived.

One left with my brother, another took me aside to see the scars across my body

And the gaze that had defied each attempt to make me second among peers.

He told me all goodwill was unsound,

how the eldest despite the peace would always keep me down

and I would do well to remember all these scares I carry round,

how they’d soon give me a name to be revered.


He said they’ll cheer and they’ll spill beer and that’s the closest to a ticker tape parade a dog like you would ever be.

That sounded good enough for me.



Thrown against the wall, but with every feral tooth on show I leapt back from every fall

They goaded me to rage and made me eager for the brawl 

until what little faith I had was in the pit.

As rivals took their place he reminded me what they could do if doubt was given space.

When he took away the chain it was no more than a race 

to tear their throats before I let my own be slit.


Undisputed and starred, months bled into years and my reputation travelled far.

Each city’s underbelly roared with barbarous desire

to see the devastation meted out by

just another second born of five.



He led me to an old abandoned school

And from the money changing hands I knew this one would be cruel.

To the far side of the pit they brought their city’s fighting jewel

and no crowd before screamed so loud for the kill.

On a chain identical to mine, across a now disfigured face I saw that mark much less divine than when they led him from my sight.

Chains fell and with the worst intent his hatred matched my own

and, though his strength had only grown, 

I saw a moment’s gaze of doubt,

tore his neck down to the bone and he fell still.

He bled out all the shame within and wept, not for his status

but the nature of his kin,

and whispered ‘kid, whatever lives we took we’ll never own the sin’.

His final exhalation drowned beneath a Godless din


as they cheered, spilled beer and made it clear

that the dead know only one thing; it is better to be alive.

The sound of absolution for the bloody teeth

of a second born of five.



Written by Del Scott Miller


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