Nineteen Years Old

NINETEEN YEARS OLD

There was a funeral today.
They drove him through the town,
past the places where he used to play.
Past the general store,
past the merchandise,
and the streets were cold.
They were covered with ice.
In my town,
there was a funeral today.

A hero was buried today.
The flags were flying,
the mayor had a speech to say,
honoring the dead and the dying.
Red, white and blue --
I saw the biggest flag I've ever seen
waving over the village green.
It was a sight to behold,
and he was nineteen years old.

There was a hero’s funeral today,
while somewhere in the capital, not that far away,
old men in business suits, their faces grey,
went on about their routine day.
Maybe some golf to play.
But in my town,
there was a funeral today.

A hero was buried today.
Police and firemen cleared the way,
while someone murmured, “What a crazy price to pay!
One more grave, one more wreath to lay.
All those flags to unfold,
and he was nineteen years old.”

There was a hero buried today.
On Main Street, they closed the traffic down
as the procession made its way through town.
The flags were flying, so many I couldn't see through
all of that red, white and blue.
There was a funeral today.

Then the road was cleared.
Just as quickly the crowd disappeared,
kids running, playing down the street.
I heard somebody say, "Let's go get something to eat."
Yeah, in my town,
there was a funeral today.

And as I walked away,
I couldn't help but wonder
what the dead man might say
about keeping the homeland safe and free,
about deserts, about democracy.
In my town,
there was a funeral today.

Now the wind's kicking up,
and it's bone chilling cold.
The box is underground.
This story is told,
and he was nineteen years old.