by Rick Barlow
When you call me "Captain",
If I took a poll,
Would find few comprehending,
The price I paid, the toll.
To wear four stripes upon my sleeve
Laurels o'er my brow,
And sit in high commanding places,
To peer beyond the prow.
The hours, days, months, years,
And "why is daddy gone?”
The awful, silent, empty nights,
My wife has sat...alone.
The missions flown in distant lands,
The friends forever gone,
Or seeing ONCE the havoc wrought,
With merely human hands.
The dead of night, red eye flight,
Begun at dusk till early dawn,
Or why I always had to fight,
For simple pleasures, mow the lawn.
Bearing souls to many places,
Joyous, anxious, wanting faces.
For their safety ne're abstained,
Fatigue endured, and meals refrained.
My honored craft and how this hand
Will place you soft upon the land,
And all for "love" you can not see,
No one would know, 'tis not to be.