I had a dream last night;

I met a man who gripped my hand so tight;

And led me down a long, curving road.

“Why do you look so troubled?” he asked.

I looked at him; I could only gasp:

“May I ask a favor, if I could be so bold?”

He stroked his long, snow-white beard,

Reached out his hand, and wiped my tear.

“My name is Uncle Sam, my son;

When you call, I’ll surely come

To right the wrongs, and save the day,

So let us walk; please have your say;

I’ll listen close, because I’m all ears;

But promise me: no more tears.”

I told him of the world today,

And how our country had lost its way:

“When athletes gather to play a game,

And our anthem is sung, to praise America’s name,

Some players kneel; they refuse to stand;

Even as our flag flies over the land.

Over their hearts, they do not place their hand.

They take a knee; I don’t understand.”

My new friend looked me straight in the eye,

And wiped his own tear; it was his turn to cry.

“Take my hand; I’ll show you a place…

Filled with crying and sorrow, but also with grace…

Once you talk with those who dwell there,

Go back and tell your countrymen why they should care;

Once you tell them, I pray they’ll understand,

Why when our flag flies, they should all stand.”

As Sam walked down the road, he asked that I follow,

And soon we arrived at a large, barren hollow.

It was a wind-swept plain, a valley of dust

Strung with barbed wire that was going to rust.

Dugouts and foxholes were strewn here and there,

The smell of smoke and napalm filled the air.

First, we met a man in a tri-corner hat;

“I fought with Washington,” he said with a rasp.

“I died at Bunker Hill, in the frozen Winter;

Fighting the British, with a cold wind so bitter.

Look at our flag, in the field of blue;

Part of my coat is there: it looks so new!”

Then Sam he did lead me, to a place oh-so-strange,

A tent on the battleground, where the dead and the lame

Lie on cots and in caskets, some awake and some still.

A man called us over, he said his name was Will:

“I fought hard at Gettysburg, I’ll tell you true ;

My brother’s uniform was grey, mine was blue.

When I was wounded, they wrapped my head tight,

In a bandage of cotton, oh so white.

That same white you can see now,

If you open your eyes,

It’s in the white stripes,

of the flag that you fly.”

“One more man we’ll meet now,”

Sam, he did say, as he took my hand,

And led me away.

A man in a green uniform,

Shook my hand and Sam’s:

“I’m with the Army, I died in the sand,

On a Normandy beach, my rifle still in my hands.

You can still see the wound here,

Right over my heart:

A German bullet went in, and tore me apart.

The red that you see here, in this hole in my chest,

Is in the red stripes of our flag, that flutters as I rest.”

He looked me in the eye, this old Uncle Sam,

And touched my fingers with his old, weathered hand.

“Don’t forget to tell them, all over our great land;

When our flag is unfurled, our anthem played by a band:

Give them these reasons, why they should stand.”