James H. Smith


He was wrinkled, and older, at the moment didn’t smell too good
He spit in the sand, six months I’d be home, never thought I would
Three stars sat on the crest of his C.I.B.
Laying here in the sand is where he never thought he’d be
He rolled to his side, in his little brown book scratched another mark and date
Damn I’m getting’ too old for this, laying here alone, can’t stand the wait
He moves as a shadow from one war to another, never knowing when or where
If he is lost, no one will know, Missing! The family is told, No! He was never there
This playing the war game by the rules is a bunch of bullshit
The genius that thinks war has rules is a dimwit
When the blood flows, it’s live or die
Then the only rule survive
He talks to himself as he looks out across the sand
What the hell are we doing in this un-Christian land
I’m here because war is my life the profession I chose
But why all the young men who’ve had their short life brought to a close
This war, I got a sure way to an end, give ‘em ten minutes to cover their ass
then turn all that sand into a big sheet of glass