The Man Who Has Never Fought For His Country

There's part of him that sighs
The Fourth of each July
At all the noise and fuss
Which feels superfluous.

The hymns and songs of praise,
The pageants and parades,
The patriotic quirks,
The garish fireworks.

The old red, white, and blue
We pledge allegiance to
Seems like some graven god,
Uncivilized and odd.

But then gunpowder reek
Blows across his cheek.
Despite his squinted eyes
His blood begins to rise.

His courage pulls him towards
Imaginary swords
The musket in his mind
Is cocked and aimed and primed.

In stubbled field or mud
He'd gladly spill his blood,
Impatient to have died
With brothers at his side.

However he may try
When sparks light up the sky
To treat it as a game
It stirs him all the same.

All this is right and fair,
For every man should bear
In part, if not in whole,
A patriotic soul.