| He won the war, in a foreign land
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| That was no hero, that was my old man
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| And he came back home, where he met his wife
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| And he raised his kids, while he made a life
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| Now he never preached, though he always knew
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| And we watched him close, just to pick up clues
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| And sometimes late, in the dead of night
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| I can see him there, in the pale moon light
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| I am trying
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| And I don’t know how
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| And I don’t know when
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| But I’ll have to tell him someday
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| And as for this woman, my father wed
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| We knew we were loved, with the words unsaid
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| And when we were young she taught us all to read
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| And then one by one, she would watch us leave
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| Never saw her cry, for she hid her tears
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| As one by one, we would disappear
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| But of course we’d write, and of course we’d call
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| Just to hear her voice, whenever we would fall
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| I am trying
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| And I don’t know how
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| And I don’t know when
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| But I’ll have to tell her someday
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| So I wrote these words, and I hope they last
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| For the years have come, and the years have past
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| Think of all they gave, think of all the debt
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| But can’t find a way, to repay them yet
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| For the days still come, and the debt still mount
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| And do words unsaid, ever really count
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| But sometimes still, in the dead of night
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| I can see them there, in the pale moon light
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| I am trying
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| And I don’t know how
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| And I don’t know when
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| But I’ll have to tell them someday |