The jungles were our killing fields,
Where brave men fought and died.
A place where many men were killed,
And also where they cried.
The minds of those who may soon die,
Have thoughts that some think rash.
Their thinking turns to silly things,
Like what's good for their rash.
The sounds of battle fills their ears,
The rockets flying free.
The shooting makes a rhythmic beat,
Sometimes like poetry.
At times a song can be made out.
Among the shooting's roar.
It makes you want to shoot again.
So you can hear some more.
And then as soon as it had come,
The rhythm is soon gone.
You realize you're in a war,
Not on the backyard lawn.
So keep in mind, those who have gone,
To fight in other lands.
It's not a glory trip they're on,
It's gore that's on their hands.
My thanks go out to all the men,
Who went to war with me.
We fought, some died, we did it all,
To help make someone free.
2007-11-12
09:40:10
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5 answers
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asked by
Dondi
7
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry
My thanks go out to all the men,
Who went to war with me.
We fought, some died, we did it all,
To help make someone free.
My thanks goes also to the ones,
Who fought wars and still do.
Please take the friendship in my hand,
And let me salute you.
2007-11-12
09:40:44 ·
update #1
Dragonflyy: yessum, Vietnam 1968.
2007-11-12
11:15:06 ·
update #2