I am part of
the second generation of men
who are not proud anymore
and are afraid to ask what their country can do for them;
to find out just what kind of money they can spend
to fight
wars
on
distant oil shores
that our
congressmen
will never step foot on.
I have trekked through miles of sand
and began to understand
the feelings of my forefathers
when they landed at
Omaha,
Normandy,
Tobruk, and
Burma.
I have ridden on top of tanks
and
jumped from great flying machines.
I have put a bullet through the head
of
a man who was lying to me.
I was just following orders.
I was just following orders.
I held many a hand of men who were trying
to reason with me,
of women who were crying,
of children who were dying.
And I had the
courage to shoot,
but I didn’t have the courage to ask,
Why?
And my friends back home say they’re proud of me.
They tell stories to strangers
of the missions I’m on
and the
countries I’ll see.
But I get worried about the day
when they’re forty
on a porch, telling stories
about their buddy Chris
who went to
Iraq
and never made it back.
And sometimes I write home with stories
about how I get a kick out of
boys from Brooklyn who
speak passionately about
pizza
and try to convey the feeling of
hungry stomachs filled with
MRE’s.
Or that kid from
Boston who is
gonna open up that
Ca’ garage
when he gets back.
If he’s got the funds for that.
Maybe he’ll get a loan,
if he doesn’t make it back to Boston as bones
Yesterday I heard
a soldier pray
that he would give anything
to be back in the
States
to see his son born today.
When the dawn broke through the desert air
I saw him step without a care
onto a landmine
that the dogs didn’t find.
And he lost
both his legs.
The
sergeant said,
I guess we all get what we ask for.
My great-grandfather lost his toes
to the snows
as a
British footsoldier
during a winter on the
eastern front.
And my grandpa died somewhere
in the jungles of
Korea.
And my pop,
well that bastard caught
gonorrhea,
in some
Vietnamese brothel.
And me,
I fry eggs out in the desert
trying to pass
the time between
bombs and boredom
And the media says
I’m too desensitized.
These men I share weapons with all share
something in common.
Not
pride or
honor or
patriotism.
We were raised on network news
and
namebrand shoes
We went from
G.I. Joes to
Playstations 2’s
to real life battlefields.
I don’t think this is how desensitized feels.
But who am I to know the difference?
We were just following orders.
I am part of the second generation of men
who are not proud anymore
and afraid to
ask what their country can do for them.
Fighting wars, on oil shores,
fueled by
tax payers’ money.
And we’re terrified of dying out here
for
a cause we don’t believe in.
But mostly, we’re afraid to ask,
What we can do for our country.