And I Thank You...
A young soldier takes a deep breath before battle,
Now millions of miles away from the golden plains and the cattle,
Fearing for his life, and another battle loss,
He closes his eyes, and grips tight on his golden cross.
The sergeant yells, and he gets into line,
The troop marches to the battlefield, early morning, about nine,
With sweat running down their faces, and dirt in their hair,
The men look to the sky, and say a silent prayer.
A grenade explodes and the troop scurries on the run,
The young soldier hides in a foxhole, griping onto his gun,
He pops up, but too much smoke he can’t see,
Squinting as hard as he can to find the enemy.
The day is gone, and the young soldier still holds his gun to his shoulder,
Bruised and battered, he feels the night become colder,
As he looks to his left, he wants to break down and cry,
Because he had to watch his best friend get shot, and then he died.
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