(originally by Judy Small)
The first time it was fathers,
The last time it was sons
And in between your husbands marched away with drums and guns.
And you never thought to question.
You just went on with your lives
'Cause all they taught you who to be, was mothers, daughters, wives.
And you believed them
You can only just remember the tears your mothers shed
As they sat and read their papers through the lists and lists of dead.
And the gold frames held the photographs that your mothers kissed each night.
And the door frames held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight.
And you received them.
It was twenty-one years later, with children of your own.
The trumpets sounded once again, and the soldier boys were gone.
And you drove their trucks and made their guns and tended to their wounds.
And at night you kissed their photographs and prayed for safe returns.
And after it was over you had to learn again
To be just wives and mothers, when you'd done the work of men.
So you worked to help the needy and you never trod on toes.
And the photos on the pianos struck a happy family pose.
So deceiving
Then your daughters grew to women and your little boys to men.
And you prayed that you were dreaming when the call came up again.
But you proudly smiled and held your tears as they bravely waved goodbye.
And the photos on the mantel pieces always made you cry.
And now you're getting older and in time the photos fade.
And in widowhood you sit back and reflect on the parade.
Of the passing of your memories as your daughters change their lives.
Seeing more to our existence than just mothers, daughters, wives.
The first time it was fathers,
The last time it was sons
And in between your husbands marched away with drums and guns.
And you never thought to question.
You just went on with your lives
'Cause all they taught you who to be, was mothers, daughters, wives.
