We are the players

The world is our stage

All roles are important

And played every day

Fallen hero's of war

Have finished their parts

Act one now over

Act two did not start

What applause they receive

As the final curtain falls

Their credits  now posted

On a Memorial wall

Every moment of the day

A new play begins

This great world stage

Travels with the wind

We travel precariously 

upon the painted wagons of war

our destination, our stage

is never quite sure

But one thing remains 

in this theater of pain

when the director yells cut

the world is blood stained

No Oscars, no Emmys

No Golden Globes to be won

Just rows and rows of white crosses

For Americas lost Sons

Written By