He's the guy next door - a man's man with the memory of a little boy.
He has never gotten over the excitement of engines and sirens and danger.
He's the guy like you and me with warts and worries and unfilled dreams.
Yet he stands taller than the most of us. He's a fireman.
He puts it all on the line when the bell rings.
A fireman is at once the most fortunate and the least fortunate of men.
He's a man who saves lives because he has seen too much death.
He's a gentle man because he has seen the awesome power of violence out of control.
He's responsive to a child's laughter because his arms have held
Too many small bodies that will never laugh again.
He's a man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life
- Hot coffee held in numb, unbending fingers - a warm bed for bone
And muscle compelled beyond feeling - the comaraderie of brave men - the divine peace
And selfless service of a job well done in the name of men.
He doesn't wear buttons or wave flags or shout obscenities.
When he marches, it is to honor a fallen comrade.
He doesn't preach the brotherhood of men.
He lives it.