Long poem by
Loch David Crane | Details |
The Mojo Trick
Loch David Crane
Sweat-sticky and hot! The P. I. is not
a comfortable place to be;
but sit here and perspire (as though by the fire)
and I'll tell a tale to thee.
I was coming alive in a Philippine dive
after Mojo and San Miguels;
the raging fire in my stomach went higher
but my sea legs rode out the swells.
I began with a pitcher of Mojo that hit
a spot in my appetite;
and glass after glass I drank till the last
and soon was feeling just right.
Then a hostess sat down in a low-cut gown
and asked "I sit with you tonight?"
And I nodded OK in a nonchalant way
so she seated herself on my right.
Now the hostesses here are all drink San Miguel beer
And the same is served all around;
but it don't show much class to charge five times' a glass
when serving's the same size per round.
So you pay a dear price to drink beer over ice
which is how it is served in P.I.;
if you buy a girl beer when she says "I work here,"
then she knows you're a Big Spender guy.
So I looked at this girl and my mind began to whirl
and the Mojo played a trick.
Her face was so funny – a nose like a bunny –
I wouldn't let her flick my Bic!
I won’t call her ugly, but with that funny mug she'd
make customers run and hide;
you could send that girl in to a crowded room; then
watch as horrified man stepped outside.
So as I drank my beer with a grin ear to ear
I said "My name is Billy, I think."
She was hardly demure; she said "My name is La Tour.
I love you no lie. Buy me drink."
Well I should have said "no," and let the chick go
but I wasn't alone in the place;
and the thought of all night with this dog was a fright
though her body was nice – but that face!
I thought "just one more brew,” cause I'd only had two,
and I said that I'd buy her a drink.
Then she gave me a grin with her toothless brown chin
and my self image started to sink.
But because I was shy (I'm just that sort of guy)
I just couldn't tell her to leave;
so I stared at the band and I drummed with my hand
and I brushed off the lint from my sleeve.
Well the music was fine; but the bar girl's next line
was to say "Are you married, young man?"
And I saw my way out and lied with a pout –
told her I had a wife in Japan.
So she finished her beer, and was soon gone from here,
and I ordered two beers to celebrate;
I was lucky, I thought, not to get caught
between her and a magistrate.
For the Philippine girls wear long dresses and curls
and use perfume and makeup for baits;
for to marry a guy, seaman or G.I.,
means a free trip back to the States.
Then a man from the crew asked me "What's wrong with you?
Why did you let that girl go?"
And I told him her face was scare spots off an ace
but he looked back at me and said "No."
I called for "beer 12" and started to delve
into my pocket for money;
my friend said "I'll buy," and his cash didn't lie,
and "Mind if I sit with your honey?"
I said "you can do just what you want to do,"
and I said that I couldn’t look at her;
but he thought she was cute, had a nice bod to boot,
so I nodded to go ahead after.
But beer thirteen made my vision grow keen,
and I saw what a prize I had missed;
"I have drunk too much brew! She was beautiful, too."
as I saw him voluptuously kissed.
I thought "How could this be? She said she loved me! "
My hand shook; my ice cubes went clink.
I heard her say to him "My name is Tuptim.
I love you no lie. By me drink."
So I smiled. I was glad; I was no longer mad
'cause the Mojo had clouded my eyes;
I realized then she was after my friend,
and I hoped he was quick with his lies.
So it's "sailor beware!" In Olongopo there;
where the girls fish for guys in the bars;
and though I often roam, I always come home,
– single! Thanking my lucky stars.
– By the Phantom of the O2 level
(O1 and O2 are Officer’s and Civilians’ quarters on the USS Kitty Hawk; I taught English aboard several ships at sea, in the Program Afloat for College Education.)
Loch David Crane
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the
Modern World, that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting "the burning of the Jews," flat
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
Earlier that week
I had attended our 6th grade's performance of Fiddler on the Roof,
at first thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My
but as the play darkened
with the town's absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you're just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.
Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won't matter.
I'm reading Bloom in the Times, how
anyone who doesn't believe Israel should exist is by definition
Come to find out, I may fall into that category - not that Israel shouldn't
but as a so-called Jewish state
any more than a Muslim or Christian land. To some,
Jewishness is not a religion, it's an ethnicity. You have no problem
with the Swedish state, do you?
Should the Swedes be expected to open their borders to the Finns?
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it's inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
I hate when people disagree with me.
I get angry.
When a plate breaks, it asserts another possibility.
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride to my
Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many's more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European,
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags
of ice, fields of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate
toward the mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such
abstraction and, thus, acted on a fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs expanding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for "the burning of the Jews."
Long poem by
Timothy Jacks | Details |
h when i was truth i fell
drew boy i grew up
still def still be a cre4ators tool
wipers for the pain tears drop
fear not, fret no baby worrys from the devil. whispers on my ear xrtays , be very afraid, cantrall camaflauge like a sand dollar, honor boy we descretion , a virtue is all im left now, we the still launching balls in the park, remarks, its remarkableaint it?deep all dark as the cell lights from weldsgenuine from the top to the bottom, weathered by the struggle tried and true i confess tyhe devil still got a bounty on my head here, Weapons come bring all even that
determination reaffirmed confirmation
dragged across the face of
the devil, and i will face him,
killer on a cutthroat, lost my chrome and prorellis,
tomahawk mechetes,common cause i blare on, bread and butter, married to love of, giving mary credit, everytime i ever said it, deeper than the message, freedom never said more, boy act like he badder, go for me now im bipolar facing all weapons like its the deepest ****ing episode, connection in the west, no nothing coming easy, friends spell finders,wilder than saying it aint over, i aint acting like im clean, babys body beating on my head whelps and melodies, def to a felony, boy consider carefully im more than just distant memories, more than u still feell, the crown on your head of a king i slam down, been down in this sound like seashells has been around, like it hurts well pain is my profession, still trying trying to perfect it, pros dont know whats pros and cons know, among those pics as fast a lens close, so i been known tell u motha****as i been known, still feeling likke i got a price on me, yea devils got a bounty on my head, ask my nephew, ask me and stars shine like scars be me traveling far to minds, reaching for more life treating this like im beast tearing out this town by its eyeballs, white squalls black powder , blast that ass like Im massive passions in acid baths,listen strictly speaking to the Masters, G-force and white noise creator of the devil salngs pain choice words Streets still speak ina deep voice, do u feel remorse, hear the men i lead hear me boy slient in a count down anticipation anger too got u making mistakes now, now now no i aint even dressed in your wardrobe, take the tie off, nical all nighters, alcohol graig them twist their ****ing minds up, listen if u got better hand, well stealth meet finesse's nails, i said i will, sett a trap and the net never catches me it never will, dealing with a hardhead, as i rain hell down soft my middle finger the taste of victory , that u still long for, flash that mercy and emergencys well dont freak out, i speak out
and put a X on a narc's head, boy im part metal, its what i teethed on, Like Im thuggish for accidents that the dicate the laws broken by a skunk, feel my blanco vendetta,as it shrinks your stature, just suppose I stole your power, well ***** u can have it back,
Long poem by
James Clark | Details |
It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood.
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait, I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath, such a heavy lump in my throat, “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think, my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink.
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends.
I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.
Long poem by
Sandra Haight | Details |
There you are
face to face with me on Skype
thousands of miles away.
A grown man, but still my son,
Lieutenant Colonel, US Army;
Iraq War, February 2004...
You are there.
You tell me you are safe–
after all, you are an officer and
Brigade Commander...an engineer.
You have guards, and interpreters...
You are trained so well for survival...
But still...things can happen...
and they have...even to officers.*
I wait for your return...your Dad waits too...
sixteen long months...first tour of duty.
Your wife and children –our grandchildren–
your sisters, we all wait...but thankful
that halfway you get a short leave to spend
with your wife and children in Germany.
Every day...we wonder...
Are you flying on a helicopter–
those frequent enemy targets?
Or directing military engineering projects,
for sure near the war zones?
Will there be roadside bombs on your path?
Too many scenarios...too many worries.
Too many stories in the news.
As an officer, you have to send out
those sad letters about your men, your soldiers...
to their families, now with broken hearts...
too many sons...who are not coming home.
My heart aches for them...their waiting is over.
I wait...your father waits...your family waits.
The months go very slow.
Missed Thanksgivings, Christmases,
birthdays...and just ordinary family days...
but still...a miracle to see your face on Skype.
Then...one day you are here! Back in the USA–
back home to your family...back home to us!
Prayers answered...You are home safe!
Not on Skype...you are here for real.
However...not for long...
Second tour coming up...fifteen more months...
Many more sleepless nights...more worries,
many, many more days missing you–
and many, many more days waiting...
Finally, months go by...prayers answered...
safely, you come home from the war...
two and one-half long years of waiting.
You serve our country well...another four years
here in our dear USA, at the Pentagon.
You retire as Colonel, July 2010–
after twenty-nine years of service.
Of all those twenty-nine years,
I, your mother, will always remember
those longest two and one-half years...
those years of worry...those years of waiting.
But still, dear son, I am
so very proud and thankful for your service.
Sandra M. Haight
Sponsor: James Rogers
*Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF)
Military Deaths and Wounded
Officers Killed In Action: 427
Officers Wounded: 1,880
Long poem by
John Arribas | Details |
TRENCH CURSE 1918
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
PATRIOTIC SONGS GIVE US REASON TO CHEER
EXCEPT WHEN “ OVER THERE” BECOMES OVER HERE
MOUNTING CASUALTIES ARE EASY TO EXPLAIN
MEN ON FOOT CROSSING OPEN TERRAIN
SYNCHRONIZED WHISTLES SIGNAL THE ATTACK
RISE OUT OF THE TRENCHES DON’T LOOK BACK
CHARGE ACROSS NO MANS LAND SEARCH FOR THE FOE
STEP OVER THE WOUNDED AND LIFELESS LYING BELOW
LEAP INTO A TRENCH AS THE ENEMY RUNS
SHOUTING COMRADE, COMRADE, DROPPING THEIR GUNS
RUN ONE DOWN, HE FACES YOU, A TEENAGER AT BEST
YOU THRUST YOUR BAYONET INTO HIS CHEST
HE FALLS TO THE GROUND WITH A TERRIFIED SHOUT
YOU PULL YOUR BAYONET IT DOESN’T COME OUT
PUT YOUR FOOT ON HIS BODY TRY ONCE MORE
IT SEEMS HARDER TO PULL THAN IT WAS BEFORE
FIRE SEVERAL ROUNDS TO LOOSEN THE HOLD
DURING TRAINING THAT’S WHAT WE WERE TOLD
YOU CAUTIOUSLY EXPLORE EACH PADDED SIDING
TO FERRET OUT THE ENEMY WHERE HE MAY BE HIDING
WHISTLES NOW SOUND SIGNALING THE ALL CLEAR
NOW TO GET THE DEAD AND DYING OUT OF HERE
IF THE BODY IS OURS WE SELECT A SPOT
IF ITS THEIRS WE TOSS IT OVER THE TOP
A THREE HOUR TRUCE IS SIGNALED BY SPEAKERS OVERHEAD
TIME FOR EACH SIDE TO RECOVER THE WOUNDED AND DEAD
YOU’RE OUT OF THE FRENZY AND CALMED DOWN A BIT
YOU SEARCH FOR THE FRIENDS THAT MAY HAVE BEEN HIT
BUT WHAT YOU SEE IS THE MAN YOU RAN THROUGH
HE WAS JUST DOING WHAT HE WAS TRAINED TO DO
HIS TERRIFIED FACE IS ETCHED INTO YOUR SOUL
THAT FATAL LOOK IS ALREADY TAKING ITS TOLL
WHAT WAS HIS NAME AND WHERE WAS HE FROM
I’VE STOLEN THE LIFE FROM SOME MOTHERS SON
ITS BEEN FORTY YEARS SINCE THAT TRAGIC DAY
THAT YOUNG MAN IS STILL A TEENAGER TODAY
EVERY SO OFTEN HE RACES PAST MY EYES
CAUSING A TIC AND A HOPELESS SIGH
HE WAS AT MY WEDDING AT THE END OF THE AISLE
HE WAS STILL TERRIFIED LACKING A SMILE
AT FIRST I SAW HIM NEARLY EVERYWHERE
IN CROWDS AT BALL GAMES AT THE COUNTY FAIR
HE WAS IN THE AUDIENCE AT MY SONS GRADUATION
BUT WHAT CAUSES MY GREATEST TREPIDATION
IS HIS PRESENCE IN NEARLY ALL OF MY DREAMS
THAT DAY IN THE TRENCH IS ALWAYS THE SCENE
I’LL NEVER GET OVER IT THAT’S FOR SURE
CAUSE WHEN YOU FEEL GUILTY THERE IS NO CURE
I WAS JUST DOING MY DUTY AS I WAS TRAINED
BUT THAT DOESN’T STOP THE MEMORY AND PAIN
FROM REOCCURRING AS EPIC MOMENTS CAN
LIKE TAKING THE LIFE OF ANOTHER MAN
MY HOPE WAS TIME WOULD MAKE IT FADE AWAY
THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN I’LL HAVE TO WAIT FOR THAT DAY
WHEN I CROSS OVER THE INFINITE SEA
I HOPE HE’LL BE THERE TO PARDON ME
Long poem by
Stephen Washam | Details |
When my son was small he and his friends loved to play marines
A brown eyed soldier dressed up in his helmet and his jeans
I asked him why he always died whenever they would play
He just said “I saved my friends, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way”
As he grew up his Mom and I always wondered what he’d be
When he reached high school he enrolled in their ROTC
Once he had finished high school he enlisted without delay
I should have known it all along, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
When he had finished training and became a full marine
I was the proudest father that anyone had ever seen
A brown eyed soldier in full dress not a thread in disarray
Stood proudly there before me, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
He eventually got married to a beautiful young wife
And I asked if she was ready for a military life
She just smiled and hugged me tight as she fondly did convey
That nothing could make her prouder, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
One day he told us he must leave for a war had broken out
He wasn’t sure what started it or what it was about
His mother asked if there was any way that he could stay
He told her “Mom, it’s my duty”, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
She said “Son, it’s very dangerous, you could be killed you know”
He said “Mom, if we all stayed home there’d be no one left to go”
“Dad,” he said “If this war is right it’s not for me to say”
But I have to follow orders, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
Just recently his wife received a visit and a letter
Our son had died in combat and that there was not a better
Leader in all their company, and that on that fateful day
He’d bravely saved all of his friends, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
He left behind a sweet young wife and beautiful little son
We all are very proud of him and everything he’s done
My son did his duty and he is coming home today
In a flag draped wooden coffin, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
Some have asked if I’m angry that my only son had to die
I simply smile and shake my head and here is my reply
My friend take a look at all you have around you here this day
You have all of these lovely things, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
My grandson looks just like his Dad in his helmet and his jeans
As he plays out with his buddies, pretending they’re marines
And when he falls and pretends to die, then I know right away
That he has just saved all his friends, ‘cause that’s the soldier’s way
For William J. Holder
In memory of Jon R. "Sonny" Holder
Died during the Vietnam conflict
Long poem by
Robert Ball | Details |
Let me tell you a true story.
Hopefully to show God’s power and His glory.
Two army buddies, friends that went A.W.O.L.
Absent without leave a military crime, a foul.
Two young men scared in Saigon, not more than eighteen.
Came over together from Oakland meeting, both young and green.
Naïve they were and pretty scared too.
Made a deal on the plane, “You cover me, I’ll cover you.”
Madness, chaos, helicopters flying around in the air.
Daytime, night time, the rumbling and thumps where constantly there.
The outside perimeter, with Saigon close by they kept vigil, they protected.
Turns out the two soldiers, disillusioned with the killings became dejected.
So tired of the killings, bombings they met a bar owner and stayed with him.
Each night you had to be in at 7:00 the curfew set in.
MP’s Vietnamese and Americans patrolled the streets for movement, watching within.
So the bar locked up good and tight you were their for night, till the dawns light set in.
Two soldiers In a Hotel-Bar- Brothel, and a vicious civil war.
Knowing when returning to base they would have some emotional scars.
One night late two weeks from camp the soldiers awoke to a flash shattered glass a rocket had hit the hutch next door.
Two soldiers hearing the cries and screams of woman and children, the innocents the poor.
Screams, cries desperate and whimpering could be heard inside the hut.
Let’s face it they were in the worse way bleeding and cut.
The five trapped had a soldier that didn’t care if he was AWOL; all he cared about was getting them out of the fire.
The soldier went in an out three times and he didn’t tire.
Looking back at the incident the other soldier aided the burnt and suffering as help arrived.
Without them these people never had a chance, they were caught off base, yes. But they were blessed and these people survived.
They for sure have the love and appreciation of the people they saved that day.
So in that moment that time they didn’t care of the race of these people they were humans and it didn’t matter to the two soldiers no way.
What happened to them? They were given a court martial an undesirable discharge, sent home.
What would you have done if you were the one?
Not even twenty finished with the war, the greatest lesson here is if they weren’t at that hotel, they wouldn’t have ever discovered that all are human.
In the midst of all the chaos, killing, mayhem, gave these two soldiers the love knowing that innocents needed help and they did for their fellow man
Long poem by
michael tor | Details |
He Picks up his son looks into his eyes,
and says I love you. Gives His wife a hug
goodbye as he tries to hold the tears back.
He waves goodbye as he slowly turns
away not knowing if this will be the last
time he ever sees them again.
His boots are spit shined. His uniformed
pressed. His hair is short and his heart is
He wasn't drafted he chose to fight for our
freedoms. His father served in Vietnam his
grandfather served in the Korean war. He
felt a duty to serve like many other young
brave American men.
He wants to make a difference in this
crazy world. Wanting it better for his son
than he had.
His salary barely makes ends meet these
days. The benefits are Post Traumatic
Syndrome or even worst, loss of life.
Heart ache and pain, everlasting depressing
memories and loss of comrades.
Sometimes we don't recognize he is out
there everyday risking his life every minute
of the day. We are so busy watching Jeopardy,
or a National football game, or baseball game.
Depending on the season. How often during
the day do we think of those poor souls in
harms way. Be honest with yourselves.
These men and woman deserve much,
much more then what they are getting. We
owe them everything.
Look at the men that came back from Vietnam
how we turn our backs on them, when they
suffer from agent orange. Not only did they
suffer but their children as well. Our
own government did this. They used them,
abused them, and did not take responsibility
for their serious ailments.
Why would anyone want to serve. Knowing
they are just a pawn, or a number that they
use for their own ajenda. They the politicians
cronies profit from war. Whether it is the sale
of weapons or a countries natural resources
like oil that they take over the country for.
Missiles of mass destruction what a lie by
Bush. Then when he got caught lying about it,
he blamed it on terrorist. Yes a man in cave
against the mighty United States. They must
think were fools to believe this ruse.
The trillions of dollars they spend on their
wars could be spent on the Homeless and
education for the future of your children.
Creating jobs for the jobless. Feeding the
hungry, taking care of the poor. Helping our
soldiers when they come back. On and on.
I give thanks to our men and women that
are our heroes. They are our soldiers.
God bless them all.
9/22/2015 Contest sponsored by Edward Ebbs
Long poem by
louis rams | Details |
this was sent to me and i feel it should be shared.
The Old Soldier
He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion,
Telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.
And 'tho sometimes to his neighbours
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' jimmy has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.
He won't be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'Tho a Soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young
But the passing of a Soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country
And offers up his life?
The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.
While the ordinary Soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And perhaps a pension, small.
It is not the politicians/news reporter
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
With his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a Soldier--
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight until the end.
He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honour
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline
In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."