©2013 - Patrick L. Groleau

All Rights Reserved

Nuclear weapons remain with us, and, terrible to contemplate, there are still those who see them as "solutions." Of where I worked, however, like the weathered stockade walls of Fort Apache and the crumbled ruins of ancient Roman outposts, there remains only cracked pavement, sprouting weeds, and, chorusing ever so faintly amongst the echos of spanner wrenches and non-sparking screwdrivers, soft, ever so softly in the wind, are the voices of my comrades of so long ago.

There is an old cookhouse, far far away

Where we get pork and beans, three times a day.

Beefsteak we never see, damn-all sugar for our tea,

And we are gradually fading away.


    Old soldiers never die,

    Never die, never die,

    Old soldiers never die

    They just fade away.


Privates they love their beer, 'most every day.

Corporals, they love their stripes, that's what they say.

Sergeants they love to drill. Guess them bastards always will,

So we drill and drill until we fade away.


   Old soldiers never die,

    Never die, never die,

    Old soldiers never die

    They just fade away.

AMERICAN FOLD SONG

UNKNOWN AUTHOR

a quiet marsh in a limestone field

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PHOTOS

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