Cold chunks of pitted concrete,
Resting now, in pieces, on Norman hill,
Overlooking deserted waters,
Roiling, they've long ago had their fill,
Of rusting hulks of menace,
And the ghosts of those that will,
Live forever in our memories,
Live forever on our quill.
For us, they charged to hostile land,
Thousands dying on that terrible beach,
Lead undercutting the will to stand,
Life's blood red the color of hallowed sand.
As long as we remember,
And remember, e'er their sake, to teach,
All that happened there, on that day, so dark,
And countless others that dawned, morose,
These ghosts will live forever,
Live forever by their own mark.
In the hearts of a grateful country,
And the hearts that, even yet, hold them close.