The Four Thousandth Soldier - a poem by John B. Moss

The Four Thousandth Soldier

	I am number four thousand, but don't you know That's an honor I'd really rather forego, For who remembers the others who fell, The others before me that felt death's knell. I was number four thousand, and after that's said The question is begged, How many more dead Does it take to ask Why, What's it all about, The shooting and crying leave no room for doubt... Being number four thousand just ain't no big thing, Ask number three thousand if his praises we sing - I'd rather not say that my death has no meaning But if quantity counts, then four thousand is steaming... So the number four thousand, which seemed like a lot Before 2008, which is how far we've got, Will look so much smaller if we stay this course And 2012 will see eight thousand, or worse. Pray for those fallen, it?s the least you can do, Four all those dead soldiers, face down in the dew - And while you are down there on bended knee Remember the four thousandth - for that would be me. John B. Moss © 03/23/2008 -

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