I wasn’t really for the war.
But all my kin, in wars before,
Had gone when called. I couldn’t flee.
No, Canada was not for me.
Another thing that I was not
Was someone wanting to get shot.

I thought the Guard would be my out,
But Daddy didn’t have the clout
To get me off the waiting list.
He knew no pol who might assist
In putting me above the rest.
With influence we were unblessed.

And movement in the list seemed dead,
As heirs of big shots shot ahead.
So I was called by Uncle Sam,
And made a grunt, and sent to Nam.
I wrote home once, said I was fine.
Then Charlie got me with a mine.

Historians may not recall
My name, now chiseled on that wall.
Still, they might say I played a role
By going on that last patrol
And not returning to my base:
I might have died in Bush’s place.