Not young men with families,
not young ladies with college degrees,
just boots on the ground.

Not souls, not intellects, not creative hands,
not doctors, not scientists, not keepers of the land.

What’s that sound, Captain?
Boots on the ground, my son.

How many are there, Captain?
Ten thousand outward bound.

What becomes of them, Captain?
Some are lost and never found.

Who are they really, Captain?
Boots on the ground.

       Keith Worthington