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 parents' 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 knights, who work upon his soul
His honor flew away from him, like pigeons on the wind
Spending his last pennies on cheap wines and sins
But still they make the soldiers
And soldiers still grow old
Pump their minds with dignity, then let the young men go
Another day, another statue, falls out in the dawn
Weathered Statues still march on and on
