What Could he Do?

There he sat, a boy of only eight, watchin'
From his cozy Hoosier abode. Back then,
It wasn't heinously viewed. He was mean,
And even mean drunk, but what could she do?
What could he do, alas, only eight?

But, in the Depression, that was doin' good.
How many wished to have a roof
Over their heads, food in their stomachs.
Battering be damned, life was good.

Well, one day, eyes glittering like his guiding
North Star, enough was enough. He told him
To go. And go, he did. It was bittersweet,
And now... what could he do? For he was only eight

Living on the edge of depression before,
Led to even harder times now. She, was a maid.
And he, was only eight. So, she cleaned,
and cleaned and clean.

And he, well, he went to the ballpark
And sold soft drinks sparkling with the
Enthusiasm he only dreamed he could have, and
the pretzels whose salt saturated his wounds.

So I look back now, at him, when he
Was but eight. And I see him now,
6 feet down, Looking back, at...
What's he's done. Fighting, his whole life thru.

From the porch, with his father, to that fateful day
In the ballpark, where he saw six men beat the shit
Outta a kid, one... Not much older than he, cuz he was black.
But, alas, what could he do? For he, was only eight.

He fought, he fought hard, and ended up
In Korea. A war forgotten to most,
Means a helluva lot to him, to me. Before that,
On a Sub, in the Pacific, fighting Tojo goons.

Once President, Bush signed a picture,
One that thanked him for... saving his life.
To a repairman, it was recognition.
Recognition he so deserved, but still never received.

He retired, later on, with his family gone, and
With his wife, raised what became me. Now,
I look back, eyes glistening more than I'd
Certainly ever want to admit, with him
Six feet down, but yet still
Eight years old, in Southern Indiana.
What could he have done? It doesn't matter.
Because to me, to many, he's done so much.