Old Glory Poem by Daniel J Harding

Our bunkers were full, and the enemy lay all around.
Live ammo overhead, as the bombs fell to the ground.
A man threw himself down, on top one live grenade.
Saving men from his unit, and so gladly he paid.
The land they had fought for, so proudly to save.
Now was covered in bloodshed, and many dead brave.
The orders came down, the last hill must be won.
Their courage moved them forward, it could not be undone.
The numbers were stacked, but the last of these men.
Would still lay their lives down, to let freedom win.
As they continued falling, they advanced the field slow.
Till the last of these brave men, would face the dawns glow.
On top of this hill now, stood the very last man.
With a wound to the head, and a gun in his hand.
Then he looked down below him, at death and despair.
And he left our American flag planted there.
He thought of so many, who paid for this freedom.
And he wondered if people knew how much we need em.
So that when he comes home, as a hero of the war.
Would any of his people, know what he had fought for.
And in all his confussion, despair, grief and doubt.
The war finally ended, as one more shot rang out.