Our Flag, though it is made of cloth,
To me is something more.
The red stripe is the blood of men,
Who died on foreign shores.
The white stripe is the bandages,
That covered wounds and say.
The blue one, how they must have felt,
With loved ones far away.
The stars are the one's they must of seen,
At night as they lay there.
Knowing that another night,
They'd never, never share.
Now, how can we show disrespect,
For this Flag in the air.
As we think back, of all the men,
Who helped to put it there.
E.H. Coe 1973