“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