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In the distance a bugle will sound.
Quietly calling for the alert to listen.
In the night the fallen resound.
They ask for all that listen to snap to attention.

The calling is finished.
The horn has diminished.
The men and women carry on.
To rest their weary eyes till the crack of dawn.

But his eyes will not rest,
He sits on his rack.

Still fully dressed,
His mind is under attack.

His legs had carried him home.
His arms bore the flags and caskets.
Of those men who had fallen.
Fighting for those honored flags.

But he did not come home,
At least not a man.
For what kind of man,
Could not bring his brothers home?

He had left his being behind,
With his boys that died,

fighting the good fight,
From the break of day till the end of the night.

And also with the ones he killed,
the other boys fighting their good fight.
Both his brothers and his foes
Were the best men he would ever mett.

So when that ol' bugle calls
And empties the halls
He'll wish it was him and not them,
who had their name etched on the wall.