One Nagging Perpetual Question.
Rapid rifles, fearful aim
from secret, secure nests,
They select a random target,
blow holes into his chest.
The medic cradles gently,
Dour comrades bid good night.
Close his eyes, collect his tags,
prepare his box for flight.
Now home- a name and number,
the bugle blares farewell.
Mourners clutch the folded flag
he earns for where he fell.
Rigid rifles, solemn aim,
assault a steel blue sky.
Great God above, embrace him.
Why did he have to die?
Rapid rifles, taking aim,
Count up the endless dead.
Mankind is so inventive
to silence life with lead.
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