“Duty, honor, country” – words –
lies preached to young soldiers
to take arms for political gain.
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 streets, 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, the big shots and phonies,
saying one thing, doing another.
They ordered us to forget our girlfriends,
sleep with M-16’s, Code of Conduct manuals.
Fortunate sons ate in officer’s clubs,
flew high over battlefields, awarded each other
medals, ribbons, to wear on dress greens.
For us, it was crap out of tin cans,
rusty water covered with dust.
As a keeper of hope I should have
hoarded it in mountain caves for
the next generation of suckers.
Mine dropped out, sold out.
Bobby Kennedy was dead, and the marchers
moved on for the money leaving
their protests in old TV clips.
Young people, don’t believe them.
You will end up legless, with no face.
Stick with guys like Bobby Kennedy.
He got right down to it.
