Little boy on a Hill

A little boy stands with his family on the family farm,
up on a hill top with generations of friends,
they have come to say goodbye to grandpapa,
who served in a place called Korea.

Twenty-one guns sound the report,
Taps sounds farewell.

A few years later the little boy is back on that same hill,
his brother they lay to rest with honors abounding,
his heart is heavy as he says goodbye,
he served in a place called Afghanistan.

Twenty-one guns sound the report,
Taps sounds farewell.

Pass a few more years and he returns in uniform,
come to say goodbye to his father,
source of all his strength and morals,
he served in a place called Vietnam.

Twenty-one guns sound the report,
Taps sounds farewell.

A couple years later his little boy asks about the hill,
he answers the boy with faraway voice;
everyone buried there has served our country,
one day I will rest on that hill.

Twenty-one guns sound the report,
Taps sounds farewell.

Terrible as it may be,
our profession is war.
Rare tho it be,
our business is peace.

Twenty-one guns sound the report,
Taps sounds farewell.