As he lies dying… life slowly
oozes from his gaping wound.
The glory of the battle has
quickly passed, and the blue
in his young eyes has turned
to gray…pale ash has invaded his skin,
as he feverishly thinks of his
next of kin.
Principles, valor and glory
are fading away in favor
of pain, shock and the chill
of fear intensified by the cold
pouring, monsoon rain.
The Red, White and blue waves in
the Autumn air as the bugle calls…
A line of young men stand tall.
Rifles at Present Arms, Fire!"
is the command.
