weathered statues, tin soldiers that march in our parks wrapped in yellowed newsprint, on their benches in the dark faces fill with sadness, sorrow drawn from your nights surviving on old glories but now the glory's have died lonely men who are tortured, once proud but now forgotten gnarled hands hold canes, where guns were once before taunted by the children whose parent's lives he saved forgotten by a state, whose leg in war he gave silver gleams upon his chest, though sweat gleams on his brow darker days and sable nights, who work upon his soul his honor flew away from him, like pigeons on the wind spending his last pennies on cheap wine and sins but still they make the soldiers and soldiers still grow old another day, another statue, falls out in the dawn weathered statues stil march on and on