Monsoons in sixty-seven
Didn't cleanse their wounds of war.
Saw too many buddies go
Nobody could say what for.
The early trips to heaven
For boys their son's wouldn't know.
Those who saw sixty-eight
In a year had grown so old.
Coming home just off their flight
Baby killers they were told.
Make love not war; spat with hate.
Yet still more were sent to fight.
Years and years of devilish dreams
Whiskey nights don't drown them out.
Names remembered on a wall
Fallen in a war of doubt.
Patriots alone it seems,
Vets of Nam who gave their all.
George S. Kulas
©2000
Sergeant Major
US Army Retired