BURY ME WITH SOLDIERS

I've played a lot of roles in life;
I've met a lot of men,
I've done a lot of things I'd like to think
I wouldn't do again.

And though I'm young, I'm old enough
To know someday I'll die.
And to think about what lies beyond,
Beside whom I would lie.

Perhaps it doesn't matter much;
Still if I had my choice,
I'd want a grave 'mongst
Soldiers when
At last death quells my voice.

I'm sick of the hypocrisy
Of lectures of the wise.
I'll take the man, with all the flaws,
Who goes, though scared, and dies.

The troops I knew were commonplace
They didn't want the war;
They fought because their fathers and
Their fathers had before.

They cursed and killed and wept...
God knows
They're easy to deride...
But bury me with men like these;
They faced the guns and died.

It's funny when you think of it,
The way we got along.
We'd come from different worlds
To live in one where no one belongs,

I didn't even like them all;
I'm sure they'd all agree.
Yet I would give my life for them,
I know some did for me..

So bury me with soldiers, please,
Though much maligned they be.
Yes, bury me with soldiers, for
I miss their company.

We'll not soon see their likes again;
We've had our fill of war.
But bury me with men like them
Till someone else does more.

The following poem can usually be found in National Cemeteries:

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

An abbreviated version of the poem is indeed printed in raised letters on metal plate
at the west entrance to the Los Angeles National Cemetary.
On occassions when I walk through the cemetary to reach UCLA, I usually stop to read it.
This version ends with a verse that goes something like this (IIRC):

Your own proud heroic land
must be your fitter grave,
She claims from War his richest spoil
the ashes of the brave.

Soldier

I want you to close your eyes and picture in your mind the soldier at Valley Forge, as he holds his musket in his bloody hands.
He stands barefoot in the snow, starved from lack of food, wounded from months of battle and emotionally scarred from the eternity away from his family surrounded by nothing but death and carnage of war.
He stands though, with fire in his eyes and victory on his breath. He looks at us now in anger and disgust and tells us this...
I gave you a birthright of freedom born in the Constitution and now your children graduate too illiterate to read it.
I fought in the snow barefoot to give you the freedom to vote and you stay at home because it rains.
I left my family destitute to give you the freedom of speech and you remain silent on critical issues, because it might be bad for business.
I orphaned my children to give you a government to serve you and it has stolen democracy from the people.
It's the soldier not the reporter who gives you the freedom of the press.
It's the soldier not the poet who gives you the freedom of speech.
It's the soldier not the campus organizer who allows you to demonstrate.
It's the soldier who salutes the flag, serves the flag, whose coffin is draped with the flag that allows the protester to burn the flag!!!
"Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands. Protect them as they protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us in our time of need. I ask this in the name of Jesus, our Lord and Savior. Amen."
Prayer Wheel:
When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our U.S. ground troops in Afghanistan, Kuwait AND all over this world.

the author of this poem is:

Rev. Charles R. Fink

Father Charles R. Fink, a Roman Catholic Priest of St. Philip Neri’s Church in Northport NY., served in Vietnam from March 1969 to March 1970 as a Sergeant in the 199th Light Infantry Brigade. Father Fink was the winning designer of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Suffolk County, NY.

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