Writing in Cadence

Our pipes start playing the

moment we leave home.

We’re dressed in our best

to honor our own.

The wind carries the seriousness

of the mood that we’re in;

The thunder is rolling

for the death of a friend.

Our tartans are of leather

and our pipes are in chrome,

The sun may be shining,

But we keep a sobering tone.

When a brother or sister

falls from our ranks,

We make a thundering sound

and remember their name.

Their watch now is over

and we’ll pick up their torch.

The thunder rolls onward

as we carry them home.