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Lest We Forget Our POW's
and MIA's
I saw this man,
All tattered and torn,
His clothes worn out,
And his face full of
scorn.
He was looking for a
place,
To lay himself down,
He had run out of luck,
And his face was a frown.
The home that he had made,
Was no longer there,
He had returned from a
war,
That he had fought somewhere.
They didn't say why,
And seemed to not care,
For this is what war is,
Over there.
His wife that he had
married,
Years before he was
summonsed,
Was married to another,
For she was informed,
That he was not a commin.
His unit was lost,
To a renegade crowd,
And they couldn't find a
place,
To hang his black shroud.
He was missing in action,
And presumed to be dead,
But little did they know,
That the enemy's prison,
Was the place to lay his
sore head.
Only by fortune,
He was still found alive,
And returned to our
shores.
Only to realize,
That his life was no
better,
For here in his homeland,
He was thought of as a debtor.
No family, no friends,
His soul was in pain,
He was now existing,
In a storm sewer drain.
Now this is what happened,
To our heroes over there,
So death is so welcome,
For this life they no
longer can bear.
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