Marching Man
Oh where do you go?
Stomping your feet through the fresh snow,
Strong stature but head low,
Striding on with gun in tow,
Stars on your shoulder only for show,
Orders never recieved with a ‘no.’

Marching Man
Oh why do you fight?
To expel your anger and extinguish your light?
Or don’t you know you will burn less bright,
With bloody shrapnel always in sight?
Even in the quietest hours of night,
The horrors clutch you, grip so tight.

Marching Man
Oh how do you stay?
Throwing your withering years away,
In shelves, medals you neatly array,
In a broken cot you always lay.
In the morning, you uselessly pray,
To not die the following day.

Marching Man
Oh who did you kill?
The Duncans’ boy from up the hill?
The Rileys’ boy from the old Dugger Mill?
The Carters’ boy who never wished ill?
Or maybe the Fords’ boy with the boxing skill?
The greatest challenge, yet his body now still.

Marching Man
Oh what have you done?
You have fought hard and always won.
You have been brave and never run.
You have polished bullets and not wasted one.