Agent Orange
The thought, never came to my head
Never thought it could said
You see, He had truly cared for us
Like a mothering Hen making a fuss
We had often hidden face first down
Thinking there was safety,
Lying on the ground
While Rockets, Guns, Claymores
Him and each round, screaming,
Keep your heads down
How do I describe, War, Blinding White,
Thunder...
He had said. Dont be stupid,
Or make a blunder...
Thirteen months,
Now that's our lucky number
Just Rembember to thank God
That were not Six Feet Under
So we left that place
That Red Powdered Clay, and the Sand
Caught a couple Red Tails
To our Homes Lands
Those Freedom Birds, From Black Hell
and Vietnam
Home, Girls, Women, Maybe some kids
Making our plans
Home at last...?
Safe...?
Well... I spent twenty five years...
Just fixing my Head...?
...Even Now I only get three or four
Camping's no fun or
Trying to sleep in a bed...
I went to tell him one day... Thanks...
And happy that we had not eaten... any lead...
He broke me... the news...Clyde, Buddy,
I'm already dead...
That Red Powdered Clay and the Sand
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poem by Clyde Bryson
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