A poem written in the final days of the 2nd Iraq War
"Monday's child is fair of face..."
She cradled in her soft embrace
her Monday's child, fair of face,
a winsome brown-eyed baby boy,
in all her life no greater joy.
She watched him grow, a handsome lad,
so much the image of his dad
that neighbors called him little Bill,
but he, he could not wait until --
-- the day he turned a bare eighteen
to march away, a proud Marine
to follow his commander's voice
and fight the latest war of choice.
They brought him home, his face disguised.
To glance beneath was not advised.
She smothered in a last embrace
her Monday's child, fair of face.
-- Robert Brault
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