By: Joe Attanasio 1969
A war as such that we are in,
Slaughter that we did not begin;
Strives not for either side to win,
But grows strong on idealisms sin.
Hawks support our righteous claim,
As good brothers are being slain.
Capitalists thrive on playing their game,
Imperialist guests remain the same.
I once overheard a young Viet lad,
Retell of a tragedy so very sad;
An American mistake took his dad,
And VC wounds his mother had.
Inflation has that country torn,
War orphans are better never born.
Sides know not of people gone,
And patience itself is badly worn.
If this poem makes you wonder why;
Imagine how it feels to die.
Don’t ask their mothers why they cry;
And don’t ask me what it’s like-don’t even try,
Because to myself I even lie…
For it’s the only way I can get by.
© Copyright 2017 attanasio. All rights reserved.
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