He stands there, in his fresh uniform that weighs ten tons;With his Sergeant yelling and shouting in his face,under the stinging, blistering sun.Sergeant offers him a choice to hide his frail, shaking bones,But he stands, still he stands.Thank you for your service, Sir.

He trudges on, in his mud soaked uniform that weighs one hundred tons;With bullets whizzing and piercing the air near his face,under the vengeful, unmerciful sun.Death offers him a grave to rest his bruised and shattered bones,but he stands, still he stands.Thank you for your service, Sir.

He stands there, in his decorated uniform that weighs one thousand tons;With wrinkles and scars left on his face,under the bright, ever-shining sun.I offer him a chair to rest his old, aching bones,but he stands, still he stands.Thank you for your service, Sir.