I was there in the winter of 64 when we camped in the ice at Nashvilles door. 300 miles our trail had led. We barely had time to bury our dead. When the Yankees charged and the colors fell, Overton Hill was a living Hell. When we called retreat, it was almost dark. I died with a grapeshot through my heart. Say a prayer for peace. For every fallen son. Set my spirit free. Let me lay down this gun Sweet Mother Mary Im so tired. But I cant come home til the last shots fired In June of 1944, I waded in the blood of Omahas shore 21 and scared to death. My heart poundin in my chest. I almost made the first seawall when my friends turned and saw me fall. I can still smell the smoke, still taste the mud as I lay there dying from the loss of blood. Say a prayer for peace. For every fallen son. Set my spirit free. Let me lay down this gun Sweet Mother Mary Im so tired. But I cant come home til the last shots fired Im in the fields of Vietnam, the mountains of Afghanistan And Im still hoping, waiting, praying that I did not die in vain. Say a prayer for peace. For every fallen son. Set my spirit free. Let me lay down this gun Sweet Mother Mary Im so tired. But I cant come home til the last shots fired
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 19:28:38 +0000
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