Weathered statues, tin soldiers that march in our parks  Wrapped in yellowed newsprint, on their benches in the dark  Faces fill with sadness, sorrow drawn from your nights  Surviving on old glories but now the glory's have died  Lonely men who are tortured, once proud but now forgotten  Gnarled hands hold canes, where guns were once before  Taunted by the children whose parent's lives he saved  Forgotten by a state, whose leg in war he gave  Silver gleams upon his chest, though sweat gleams on his brow  Darker days and sable nights, who work upon his soul  His honor flew away from him, like pigeons on the wind  Spending his last pennies on cheap wine and sins  But still they make the soldiers  And soldiers still grow old  Another day, another statue, falls out in the dawn  Weathered Statues stil march on and on