On the first trip so far from home
With other trapped brothers.  We ******* and moaned
About the bad food, the sand, and the sun.
Bored, we counted the days until we were done.

On the second tour off to war
We saw the world raw as never before.
In flashes, smoke, and blood our old selves died.
In raging hate and grief I never cried.

On the third time away from here I found
A healing place were rockets shook the ground.
Brothers drove to work, and flew back to die.
In raging hate and grief I never cried.

The last time I stepped on the plane
I knew then my true home, but I might never be here again.