Mary & Joey

Poor Mary, her man had gone away,

She wrote, Dear Joey, near every day.

They him to fight in a foreign land

and patrol the desert of Afghanistan.

She prayed for him, with care and love;

begged his protection of God above.

He sat each day in the sweltering heat

and heard children cry out in the street.

Each day he spent toting that gun

underneath the Afghan sun,

the only thing that kept him sane

was the girl back home, who kept his name.

Some ten months in his letters stopped.

Then two weeks past, her poor heart dropped.

The man at the door said Joey was gone,

dead by the hand of some bastard's bomb.

She cried and cried, each day and night,

cursing the Lord with all her might,

asking Him why He'd taken her light;

her poor Joey lost to another man's fight.

She saw him once more in the morning sun.

As they laid him down to the salute of a gun,

Mary fell to her knees dressed all in black

and cried out in pain, for her dear Joey back.