The rain pours and they are covered in mud,
hands as buckets, these boys are somewhat blood.
Frosty hands, when the rain becomes ice,
defending the flag, a cold wintery war
soldiers buried in snow and grass
just the roll of the dice.

No CD's spinning or softballs hitting the mit,
a treetop as a houseroof with a small candle lit.
He picks up the soil, a soldiers fighting ground,
a memory, no, but a brothering reminder
he has a clean bullet wound
his friend, his blood brother, now has a grave mound.

He can't just ignore a waterfall of lifesavers,
also killers, but for the good of favors.
A battlefield of knights, pawns, and rooks
one soul purpose, to defend the king
to endeaver to get his safty
each brother of blood, each king, memories in books.