Who pays the price?
Who gives up their soul?
Who lays in the ground?
Who is it that's cold?
Who has a white cross?
Who gets the letter home?
It's me, I was young, not even 23.
When God reached his hand out to me.
He sighed for my age, and I began to pray.
"Please! Oh God! Not me! Not today!"
His voice was like my mother, sweet and soft, with a hum.
"I'm sorry son, it's time for you to come."
The pain in my side was causing me to die.
So, I joined the army of the dead.
I've made some friends, here and there.
John 27, with crimson stained hair.
Isaac 33, the British turned him red.
And me 23, whose stomach was full of stale bread.
I'm one of many, many of one.
Life brought to be undone.
Didn't know how I came to this sadistic mud.
Didn't finish high school, but I learned to shoot a gun.
Stale bread in a trench is what my life became.
Gas attacks normalized, having a red stain
I was taught that the other side was ruthless to the end.
Though in a different life, we could have been friends.
The army of the dead is full of men like me.
Some dumb, some lame, some unable to read.
I think of myself as tragic at times.
Only age 23.
I could have gotten married, settled down, and had a child or 3.
But I know that in truth I'm lucky.
I know that It wouldn't have worked for me.
You don't hold men dying in your arms, and come back the same.
You feel every shot that ends someone's life.
you brag about it, laugh, and play.
But the letter to a family arrives every day.
And you sent it.
At least that's what I think now that I'm with the dead.
Each American here crosses a hill.
My cross is nice, white, and still.
My family mourns on this hill.
Forever, and ever. On this hill.
I'll never see my home once more.
Never knock on my mother's door.
I died in another land,
and got to shake god's hand.
So whomever I'm talking to
I do not know the year.
What's the weather like?
Does it smell nice?
What's the time?
What's it like to breathe?
I know what it's like to die.
Tell someone hello!
Run around and play!
How old are you?
You may have experienced it too.
And to you I pray.
My times running out
My story is now known
Carry on my legacy, as you carry on your own.
