Proud To Serve

I’m proud to serve, that’s true as hell, But sometimes I wonder why we’re here to rebel— Not against the mission, not against the fight, But the brass and the game that fogs up the right. They say it’s a brotherhood, shoulder to shoulder, But I see ‘em slicked up, gettin' rank over the bolder. The ones who dodge grime, fresh-pressed and clean, In their service dress blues, their polished-up sheen. Some troops in coveralls, sweat-stained and tired, Running two shifts while the "heroes" retired, To volunteer for cake duty, handin' out smiles, While we’re on the line, racking up miles. The shop’s down to bone, mission load is high, And we’re the ones grindin’ while the brown-nosers fly. They get the medals and accolades—so absurd, For fixing their collars and kissing up to the third. I don’t care for the politics, the backroom cheers, I don’t work for the lapel pins or selective ears. But there’s pride in the dirt, in the scuffed-up boots, Where real service lives, where honor takes roots. I’ll keep pulling weight, watch their parades pass, Nods and awards for a well-polished brass. And yeah, it gets old, watching them rise, When the dirty and smelly, they pass right by. But proud to serve—I don’t need their praise, For a job well done, for these long hard days. Just wonderin’ sometimes why it’s this way— When the heart of the mission is the boots in the fray.