Every day
On my way home
I see the attrocities
That war has created:

Thousands of
My father's peers
Laid to rest,
Placed side by side.

Fought and died
For -- as they thought --
The rights and freedoms
Of the greatest country.

Their last hours
Spent in a land
Distant from home
And foreign in every sense.

Each returned
In a cedar box
To never again
See their wives or children.

And others --
Those who survived --
Were scorned by peers
For things they hadn't done.

That old man
Who mumbles and drools
With matted hair
Was a survivor,

And the other
With missing limbs
And a beggar's sign
Fought in that war.

And as before,
When they returned,
They are treated
With ill-regard.

Those that
Frowned upon them
During their ill-fated
And glum return

Failed to
Address the enemy
Who hid between
Four walls of tyrrany.

They lied
To the patriots
Who fought and died
Courageously

But didn't know
That all the while
They were fighting
For a tyrant's greed

And those
That they fought against
Were doing the same.
Ordinary people

Who had
A common cause;
They fought a war
They'd been forced into.

The war
Had not been fought
For freedom or
Emancipation.

They fought
For occupation
And subsequent
Imperialization.

So today,
As derelicts,
These honored men
Freely roam about

For that is
The only freedom
They've been granted
Since their return

And they watch
As another
Generation
Suffers the same fate.