Taps
by John Kent
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Old Glory rests in its place, the flagpole bare now keeps the night. The bugle sounds those haunting notes, as lights go out, embrace the dark. How many times that stirring call, o'er crosses standing on green grass; above Old Glory's last caress, of sons and daughters now at rest. The bugle calls for God to bless, strains of taps roam Heaven's fields. And over barracks' darkened halls, bring forth the night and wistful dreams. |
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