The Plague
As I watch the shovel dig into the ground,
There lies my grandfather,
As cold as the ground,
The hands behind the shovel,
So rough and scared,
My father burying his father,
In the land of the proud,
America is gone,
Like the morality of men,
We fight and we struggle,
For whats left of the land,
My father buried his father,
As I will my father,
Ed least I have love from the heart of a girl,
Where I find comfort in the struggle,
A love that will last longer than fathers.
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