Wheatered Statues

Weathered statues, tin soldiers that march in our

parks

Wrapped in yellowed newsprint, on their benches in the

dark

Faces fill with sadness, sorrow drawn from your

nights

Surviving on old glories but now the glory's have

died

Lonely men who are tortured, once proud but now

forgotten

Gnarled hands hold canes, where guns were once before

Taunted by the children whose parent's lives he saved

Forgotten by a state, whose leg in war he gave

Silver gleams upon his chest, though sweat gleams on

his brow

Darker days and sable nights, who work upon his soul

His honor flew away from him, like pigeons on the

wind

Spending his last pennies on cheap wine and sins

But still they make the soldiers

And soldiers still grow old

Another day, another statue, falls out in the dawn

Weathered Statues stil march on and on