Twenty-One Gun Salute

Seven guns fire three times apiece
In honor of a fallen member of the World’s Police.
Unfortunately, it’s little consolation
To the parents who now survive their son.

The ultimate price, these men have paid
And now, to rest, these men are laid
Isn’t a folded flag a fair trade?
A symbol so their memory won’t fade.

But to the madman who’s made this his ‘Crusade,’
Ruler of a nation whose trust he betrayed,
A soldier’s life is a small price to have paid
For control of the largest source of crude, premium grade.

And, yet, he’s never been in a war zone,
Never clutched his gun to keep from feeling alone,
Distant gunfire never became his lullaby,
Never seen dunes as empty as the desert sky.

Never been torn from slumber by a surprise raid,
Never been on the deadly side of a live grenade,
Never marched, head held high, in a brave-faced brigade,
And never cried all alone because he’s really afraid.

Never felt the heat of battle or been filled with bloodlust,
Never bled for a cause he thought was unjust,
Never felt the pressures of ‘survival of the fittest,’
Never fought for his life hand-to-hand, fist-to-fist.

Sad is the day when a bullet replaces a word
Because a gun’s message is more easily heard
There is nothing he can’t take with force;
He’s killed hundreds on both sides without any remorse.

And, so, the twenty-one shots fired in mourning
Ring in the bereaved ones’ ears as a past-due warning.
A bullet caused this martyr to take his last breath
And, now, twenty-one more commemorate his death.