The people celebrate,
The bells ring loud,
dancing one every street,
what a marvelous crowd.

The politicians jest,
reelection assured,
with their very signatures,
the nation secured.

The soldier have won,
but are not merry.

Shrapnel torn,
and drenched in mud,
the brave victors gather,
'round a pool of blood.

Here lies a young man,
growing cold and pale,
held by his comrades,
he weeps into the night gale.

His body was carried home in a coffin,
How his family wept,
When a flag they were given,
his death they were forced to accept.

His story will never be known,
not to the people,
not to the congressmen,
all that will remain of him,
is a name on the steeple.