The news at five related a vignette
about two boys. Best friends since they were nine,
a photo showed a costumed double threat;
two cowboys at a halloween affair.
Jerome and Anthony were genuine
red-blooded straight line kids, found everywhere.

Enlisting as a team in the Marines,
they left from Paris Island as well taught
and hardened, self-reliant fight machines.
In Kandahar, while both were on patrol,
near dark, a lucky sniper's slug had caught
poor Jerry's neck and left a smoking hole.

At home, they buried him. The bugle played
and many people said goodbye, with tears.
Long after all departed, Tony stayed
and stared a sad man's hole into the night.
His own berserk demise would come two years
unto the day, in a vicious fire fight.

Alongside his best friend, he was interred.
Both families heard bugles played, again.
What's left to say? Through time, the human herd
has made their wars. Dead sons are nothing new.
If they're not ours, we'll wince, but feel no pain.
We'll not forget 'Survivor's' on at nine.