Beneath a canvas shield
To fend off Heaven’s tears
Coursing down her countenance
Twin rivulets of fear

He drones away the truth
In mourning black austere
Providing modest comfort
With words her heart can’t hear

With militant precision
We stand in rigid grief
Wearing shiny trinkets
All feeling hid beneath

Finally he’s finished
We raise our weapons high
Firing our fervor
Into the falling sky

Once, twice and again
For God, for Country, for Corps
Three volleys we loosen
Upon that distant shore

Bugle echoes linger
‘til washed from sodden air
And now the folded banner
On bended knee with care

Offered to her gravely
As though to ease the pain
And thus we waning warriors
Render honors in the rain

 — Ivan Floyd Strope