Poetry Archives

Because back home in Tennessee
           I was a champeen shot,
They made a sniper outa me
           An’ ninety krouts I got:
           I wish to Christ I’d not!
           
Athinkin’ o’ them blasted lives
           It’s kindo’ blue I be;
Them lads no doubt had kids an’ wives
           An’ happy home like me:
           Them stiffs I still can see.

Aye, ninety men or more my hand
           Has hustled down to hell;
They’ve loaded me with medals and
           They tell me I done well:
           A hero for a spell.

But Heaven help me to forget
           Them fellow men I’ve slain,
The bubbling flow of blood I’ve let . . .
           I’ll never kill again:
           To swat flies gives me pain.

Just let me dream when we will see
           And end of soldierin’;
When flags of famous victory
           Will be amoulderin’:
An’ lethal steel an’ battle blast
           Be nightmares of the past.