When all is said, and blame is cast,
and most is as it was before,
and the chatter stills at last,
as before the gunshots' roar,
the villain set before the mast,
convictions publicized, abhorred,
judgment made, and sentence passed,
honor the man who guards the door.
The man whom most would just walk past,
his uniform, like him, decor.
Like the lobby's brick and glass,
he's scenery, and nothing more.
The deed of honor, unsurpassed
the commentators will ignore,
in their hurry to lambaste --
honor the man who guards the door.
The killer's name, his writings crass,
will run in headlines, books, and more.
But memory holds a crevasse:
as time heals over, soothes the sore,
the heroes shuffle off, en masse,
names forgotten, as before --
for those who lived, and one who passed,
honor the man who guards the door.
