Sure Hands

Whether it's the great slog,

Or the trample over lands,

Or the heat of the Devil Dog

In the fight with sure hands….

Whether it's the gray fog

Overhead while stomping on sands,

Home is found inside a log.

In a unit, a warrior bands.

Whether they’re amphibious like a frog

Or in the wind like hair strands,

The individual shuns the idea of a cog.

The machine shows the brands.

Travel back to the scene of eggnog.

It’s the time with gifts and golden strands

Of tinsel and garland. Even in a bog

The warrior remembers and also stands.