David R. “Poppa” Alexander


Many nights he sleeps with a pistol under his jacket
The only thing that he still owns from Nam is that gun
No bath or shave in several days now
The mission finally had told him that he would have to move on.

A young man once, and still only in his fifty’s
He had fought one demon at a time but lost to alcohol
A cheap wine and a cardboard box was where he spends his time
No hope, no dreams, nothing except his Ghosts, Demons! So it’s Oh! What the Hell

Somewhere he lost his wife of only three years,
He can’t remember now why
But deep inside he would know that the Ghosts, Demons! and the Oh! What the Hell
That was more than she could take after a while

Her name of course he remembers every night
Her face, her beauty and his love
But those Ghosts, Demons! and his Oh! What The Hell feelings cost him all
In his sleep he still remembers and joins her in a love that is no more.

At the deepest of his sleep, in his drunken slumber again come
Ghosts, Demons and after this many years Oh! What the Hell
To remember those faces, those bodies, those mangled limbs
Keeps him in a place no one knows, and he wouldn’t let anyone in.

So again tonight he sleeps a fitful night with his memories
He tells himself that tomorrow he will be sober and stay that way
But tomorrow never comes; he dies in his sleep to join his
Ghosts, Demons! but Oh! What the Hell

Just another ole drunken soldier
Found lying there in the alley with only his gun and empty bottle
Somewhere he is now at peace and if not then it is
Ghosts and Demons! but Oh! What the Hell?