BY MICHAEL STALLINGS
He waved his family goodbye, as he rolled out on the bus
Destination unknown, with the government to trust.
His words they came to haunt him and echoed in his mind.
I lost the child inside me, the man I have to find.
His daddy was a ranger, the apple of his eye.
He hoped to God to see him, in Heaven when he died.
So off to Iraq flying, they sent him in a whirl,
Echoes of the gunfire, the mortars they would hurl.
No trees to shade the sun out, no cooler for ice.
The sweat would pour out of him, while resting late at night.
The Sandstorm in the distance, and choppers overhead.
The soldiers gathered round him, put pressure where he bled.
One day out on a mission, an ambush late at night
The soldier many lay bleeding, his eyes were full of fright.
Then a ranger came from heaven and stood up by his side.
Stood his son up gently, saluted him with pride,
And as they headed Northward, the squad they stood at bay.
The saw the ranger leading, calling cadence as they prayed.