Into The Bulge, up Pork Chop Hill,
dragging march into frozen Kunsan;
wading through rice, along tiger trail,
up the steps, to the fall of Saigon.
Cambodia, Laos, and Granada,
they go where we tell them there's need;
Kuwait and Iraq, white choking sand,
but all were just places to bleed.
Sweethearts, dreams, and tomorrows
folded in the wallet at the hip.
Frustration, fear, and pleading,
God's name ever on your lip.
Official letters arrive back home
telling parents and children and wives,
the fear is over, the waiting done,
your soldiers have given their lives.
©MichaelWest