Weathered statues, tin soldiers that march in our parks
  Wrapped in yellowed newsprint, on their benches in the dark
  Faces fill with sadness, sorrow drawn from your nights
  Surviving on old glories but now the glory's have died
  Lonely men who are tortured, once proud but now forgotten
  Gnarled hands hold canes, where guns were once before
  Taunted by the children whose parent's lives he saved
  Forgotten by a state, whose leg in war he gave
  Silver gleams upon his chest, though sweat gleams on his brow
  Darker days and sable nights, who work upon his soul
  His honor flew away from him, like pigeons on the wind
  Spending his last pennies on cheap wine and sins
  But still they make the soldiers
  And soldiers still grow old
  Another day, another statue, falls out in the dawn
  Weathered Statues stil march on and on