Pounded beats on cobbled streets
Not a drum to hear but the steady fall of feet
Lost souls that do not know the way
Step by step, slowly heading for the grave.
No destination, no hope of which to wish for
The ones haunted by the memory of a war.
Often scorned and often misunderstood,
They're the ones that stood for good.
The ones who swore that oath and fought
Sit behind your desk, safe behind a thought.
You could not ever hope to wear their boots
You could not bear the pain
And for all the good that they have done
They're so often viewed with shame.