Proud marchers reach the cenotaph,|
stand there at attention.
Solemn thoughts of fallen mates,
never aged to earn a pension.
A small handful from Hitler's war,
just a few more from Korea,
conscriptees and other blokes
who made the forces their career.
Younger men from Vietnam,
though they are aging too,
all have fought the noble fight,
all are pure true blue.
Young men returned from the Middle East,
stand with older brothers.
It matters not their age or rank,
they all were born of mothers.
Remembering the sacrifice,
heads bowed in deep respect.
Older men are pushed in wheelchairs,
their bodies aged and wrecked.
The bugle plays that haunting tune,
an old man wipes a tear,
with thoughts of bloody beaches
and the horror of blind fear.
Wherever flags are flying,
wherever passions rise,
men's hearts will e'er remember
until that last man dies.
© 2017 cherryk
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