More Hallowed

Well, Heaven knows you've been here before. An' the Devil knows that you're older. Since the spring back in '44. You held your rifle well above your shoulders.

Wading through fields of fire, the sea turned red and bloody. You watched your comrades stumble, turn, and fall. And join the other silent bodies.

Mountains, prairies, cities and farms and fields. Brave Yukon boys and you newfoundlanders. You all came forward when you heard the call. Together you shed your blood in flanders.

So each November you stand on parade, you come up to attention.

To hear a pack of swindlers talk of sacrifice, then turn around and deny you your pension.

Once again on this familiar shore, you hear the endless speeches.

Now there is a ghostly need at your back All those who died here upon these beeches.

Here some man says you cannot pass, you're not a dignitary. Go sit back down and keep your seat. You hold onto the wreath you carry.

Well you're young and they shove a gun into your hand, give you a push and they call you a hero. All they see here is one more old man, they made you feel you're less than zero.

So you watch the channel and you count the waves, as they roll into the shallows. There is not one thing they can do or say that would make this sacred ground more hallowed.