John Pine

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Seattle Goes South

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Fourth of November, 1863, John Pine, he ran off to war
His mama cried for John was but sixteen, she worried she'd see him no more
Strong as an oak tree but not fully grown, John wasn't scared of dying alone
Lured by the trappings of battle, the cannon's roar

The winds of war, ever-changing
Families and lives, rearranging
Sometimes you don't hear the bullet
That's meant to find you

All through that winter, they battled the cold, John and his brothers in arms
Ragged and weary, they lived off the land, ate scraps from war-ravaged farms
Hardened and older now beyond his years, each night, John heard the whispers and fears
Knew that the warnings would come too late to sound the alarm

The winds of war, ever-changing
Families and lives, rearranging
Sometimes you don't hear the bullet
That's meant to find you

Nobody knows when the end it will come
Asleep in your bed, at the point of a gun
One way or another, the bullet will find you
No matter where you might hide - or where you might run

Tenth of September, 1864, a sniper's gun cut John down
Another anonymous victim of war, buried beneath blood-soaked ground
John left his mother to mourn him alone, no grave to visit, not even a stone
His last words died on the wind, a whispering sound

The winds of war, ever-changing
Families and lives, rearranging
Sometimes you don't hear the bullet
That's meant to find you

And even if you should hear it, nothing you can do

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