On the shore the flag stands
red, white, and blue
waving in a gentle breeze.
Alongside a Union Jack
and Tricolore she stands tall,
guarding rows of stones,
each commemorating
a young man or boy
who fell on this beach
still called Utah.

On the shore,
sixty-four years before,
boats and bullets and blood
combined in the briny foam.
Red blood,
white smoke,
blue skies as they fought.
Now she stands guard
over the sleeping soldiers
who fell on this beach
still called Utah.

On the shore she stands,
red, white, and blue banner
above a graveyard.
Gone are the souls
of boys who lie here,
and the many old men
who walked and waded
off the sands
carrying the burden
of the memories of brothers
who fell on this beach
still called Utah.

On the shores of America
she has stood,
in her red, white, and blue
finery for 333 years,
a proud symbol
of a fine country.
Now I ask you
why so many
are turning their backs
and shunning her
here at home.
It is as if they forgot
all who died in her name,
like those heroes,
who fell on this beach
still called Utah.

On the shore the flag stands
red, white, and blue
waving in a gentle breeze.
Alongside a Union Jack
and Tricolore she stands tall,
guarding rows of stones,
each commemorating
a young man or boy
who fell on this beach
still called Utah.