S.O.S

Dusty old man with his trousers, torn,

Sits on the steps of the church , forlorn,

The pain on his face matches the cut on his wrist,

Where it looks like a watch, once may have exist,

His shirt is all muddied, his hair matted too,

A long trail of silver, that needs a brush through.

His stature is strong, his muscles, they bulge,

Where once in hard training he must have indulged,

His scars have their stories, I'm sure that they do,

But to ask seems unfair, unfair to undo,

The years he has spent, forgetting his sins,

The sins he bears, of killing his kin,

The pain on his face is carved by his past,

A past for us, too much to downcast,

His shirt can be changed, and his trousers disposed,

And once you see him, the stories exposed,

This man is a veteran, one that has served,

For Queen and for Country, our love he deserves.

He gave up his wealth, for his comrades who lost,

Their parts and their lives, the ultimate cost.

Since then his trousers, his only pair left,

Are tattered and torn, while he's broken but deft,

He sits on the steps, awaiting the day,

That God will forgive him, or take him away.
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For all the Veterans forgotten.