There was a G.I. who
wanted to write
of tenderness...
but a party down
the hall drowned
his thoughts with
drunken laughter.
There was a G.I. who
wanted to write
of love...
but a naked dancer
in his room
just threw up
on his pillowcase.
There was a G.I. who
wanted to write
of joy...
but tonight a homesick comrade
was hospitalized
after slitting
his wrists.
There was a G.I. who
wanted to write
of brotherhood...
but a negro friend
of his
was beaten in
the back of the brig.
There was a G.I. who
wanted to write
of peace...
but he saw
his President
shot apart like
a stray mad dog.
There will always be a G.I.
that always wants to write,
that always encounters
tenderness, love, joy,
brotherhood and peace...
but because he is
or was a G.I...
a little growth
of hate
will be the
menacing cancer
in his heart...
for a soldier
never forgets.
One of the ways of war.
I don't think any of us ever go without experiencing some sort of war or another.*
This one is going to stay with me for a long time. *