Happy is the warrior he
When he journeys in the world of men
To provide for is family
And no one else, but them.
Happy He is those tired nights.
Happy is a warrior wife.
Happy is a warrior man
When he has shelter to rest his head
And when he uses his own two hands
To bring the food, so his family is fed.
So proudly he stand so strait and tall.
As he Fiercely battles vowing not to fall.
A warrior man is that special breed
When he enters the world of man
As he asks for nothing which is free
And takes what only he can.
Though not by lying, stealing or request.
But by hard work, bleeding and sweat.
Happy is the warrior he
When he greets each and every day
When from his home he does leave
To earn himself respect and pay.
Happy he is when he earns respect.
Happy he is when he tires from sweat.
And when it is a warriors time to leave
And he is buried all alone
He shall then enter heaven proud and free
Happy and peaceful, will be his soul.
For he knows on earth he done his best.
And now he deserves his final rest.
Happy is the Lord he
When he calls away a warrior man
For he shall then plant another seed
To bring forth two more working hands.
And he will sweat, and stand as a tree.
And how I wish I was the warrior he.
Randy L. McClave
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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