Thurman P. Woodfork


Thurman P. Woodfork: Guitars, Sandbags, and Saigon TeaSitting on the sandbags watching the war,
Wondering what on earth I volunteered for.
Hearing Larry’s guitar softly play,
Pondering just what I’ve accomplished today.

Riding in a cyclo down Tu Do Street,
Watching ladies in Ao Dais, clean and neat,
Gliding by bar girls with sirens’ eyes
Offering Saigon Tea and enticing thighs.

Smelling burnt flesh, a bitter stink,
Seeing young-old eyes that never blink:
Listening to White as he pats his feet,
Strumming his guitar while keeping the beat.

Hearing my voice singing soft and low
Shouting folks back home snarling, “I won’t go!”
Sitting down on the end of my rack
Thinking ‘bout the ones who won’t come back.

Staring at the tracers, neon bright,
Searching for a life to snuff tonight.
Crouching behind sandbags fighting the war
Knowing now exactly what I volunteered for:

Preserving the right of the people to be free
To spit on the Flag, this uniform, and me.