The bottom of the bottle

I don’t want to beat this bush no more
I drink too much, you’re right I’m sure
But wear my shoes and look around
I’ve lots  of friends, most…underground.

The good, the  great, the dads the sons
The mates I’ve loved, the other ones.
The fleet of moment by their sides
The brave where cowards run and hide.

Their cries for help are seldom heard.
Their country silent, not a word
is said from people,those who could
pass laws to stop this shameful flood

of veterans torn from wars to home
bring back those demons, more to come.
To sleep, that little break from life,
that small respite for any wife.

I speak of men for I know none
of any woman been and gone
Who  lost their ways, strayed from the path 
or took their lives through mindful wrath.

I spin my words to meet the end
of this parade to fallen friends.
I raise a glass and toast them all
My pedestals up on high I fall.