Too many country boys grow up to die heroes. They forfeit their dreams to fight senseless wars, in places far from where they once were free to walk the land, to breathe the innocent air of youth. No matter where their bones may come to rest, whether under blood-red poppies or beneath the smoke-filled skies of past and present, they will always be back home again in spirit.
Under Blood-Red Poppies
Where a full moon swiftly rises
On the grassy bluffs of home
In a place that’s like no other
Where your days you spent to roam
Where a shadow in the hollow
Paints a picture in my mind
Of this peaceful haven that you loved
But left so far behind
In these hills, good son, I raised you
And sent you off to school
Then had you die in battle
In a war of senseless rules
It hurt to lose you in your prime
To bury deep, your bones
Not here beneath the maple
On the grassy bluffs of home
Not here in forest thickets
Where a young boy used to go
But under blood-red poppies
That by soldiers’ dreams shall grow
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