In the corner of the pub, he sits with pint in hand,
A memory forgotten of a far and distant land.
Just known as the “Old Man,” a sad and lonely figure,
Yet if they took the time to know him, they’d see that he was bigger.
His coat may be broken, his hair is short and grey,
Yet he stood tall for his country in every single way.
He walked through the battlefield that he called life,
Just to see the face of his loyal, loving wife.
The ring stays on his finger, though his love is gone,
He’s more than the man in the corner; he’ll stay forever strong.
He views life through his glasses, in every passing way,
He’s seen more than we’ll ever know, each and every day.
The youth often mock him, until they soon depart,
But they know nothing of his battlefield and what tore him apart.
He may be just the old man, sitting all alone,
Yet in comparison to the youth, he sits upon his throne.
For this hero has his medals, though not worn upon his chest,
They are etched upon his heart, the place where he finds rest.
So next time that you see him, nod without fear,
Strike up a conversation over a friendly beer.
