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Vietnam Wall
Photo Courtesy: Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall Site

T. Nesbitt

As boys they rode on kitchen brooms,
like Cowboys across the plains.
What o're the wide horizon loomed,
was it outlaws inflicting pain?

And then they rode on rotored wings,
soaring in an eagle flight,
infallible in their green machines,
knowing Cowboys were always right.

They bravely did their daring deeds,
in storms of dust and rain.
Hippies stayed home smoking weed,
guess they couldn't stand the pain.

Friends were made and lost in days,
but they still kept up the fight.
Wearily riding in a daze,
they fought with all their might.

Some came home in body bags,
forever trapped in time.
To always ride in nomex rags,
on death's eternal flight-line.

Their friends rode home without them,
to a lifetime filled with pain.
They mourned in silent rage so grim,
and wondered what was gained.

Stones and spit awaited those,
who selflessly had served.
Hurled by nasty hippy crows,
flag burners with no nerve.

Heads held high, Cowboys returned,
though they didn't think it right.
They watched as hippies draft cards burned,
and riots tore through the nights.

They wondered why their friends had died,
shot, shrapnel, burns and pain.
Returning Cowboys only sighed,
and rode on, across the plains.

Now Cowboys sons are sent to serve,
by those who dodged the draft.
Sent by cowards with no nerve,
it's enough to make you daft.

Lil' Cowboys ride the brooms today,
knowing freedom isn't free.
Singing "God please bless the U.S.A.,
bring Daddy home safe to me."


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