And now every April I sit on my porchThey're all gone now. And there are still marchers;
And I watch the parade pass before me
And I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving old dreams of past glory
And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore
The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, "What are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men answer to the call
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Some day no one will march there at all
We will remember them.
This was prompted by the arrival of the following in my inbox:
I found this while looking for something else, which is how web-surfing works. What did we do before the web?