“Duty, honor, country,”
words, nothing but words,
lies preached to young soldiers
to take arms against innocent peoples
After the older brother, Bobby was next
Nobody stepped in to take his place
He was the end of it, the last of hope
The words came down the line to us,
draftees outside the chow hall at Fort Carson:
Bobby shot three times at the hands of a lunatic
I should have AWOL’d to Chicago right then,
raged in the marches, thrown bottles, lit fires,
crossed into Canada, into the woods, the hills
Believe me, the biggest problem in America
was not the long hairs or the blacks or the gooks
It was the bullshit, man, that was the main problem
They ordered us to forget our girlfriends,
sleep with M-16’s, Code of Conduct manuals
The others ate in officer’s clubs at the base camps,
flew overhead and talked shop
like Lyndon, McNamera and the boys
For us, it was crap out of tin cans,
rusty water covered with dust
As keeper of hope I should have hoarded
my hope in mountain caves for you guys,
the next generation of suckers
Mine is already done for, sold out
Bobby Kennedy was dead, and the many
moved on for the money leaving
their protests in old TV clips
Young soldiers, don’t believe them
You will end up legless, with PTSD
Listen to guys like Bobby Kennedy
He got right down to it