A bugle wails, a frantic mother cries
remembering a youngster filled with charms
as war birds reassert the call to arms,
recalling one whose eye was on the prize.
Oppressive notes fall darkly on the grass,
an honor guard routinely folds a flag—
the trophy youth are dying just to bag?
That melancholy horn’s not all that’s brass.
Another slab of marble stands supplied
perhaps this represents the vaunted goal
to go before your time and fill a hole
while shots ring out just like the day you died.
It’s funny, those commending sacrifice
are never too concerned about the price.
Are You Reading Me?
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