Every so often I go through this drawer,
bringing back memories of when I fought in the war.
Here is my beret; I wore it with pride.
It meant I was special, special inside.

Here are my dog tags; I always kept them around. 
Still taped together so as to not make a sound.
There are my blood wings; I was one of the best.
I showed them off proudly, pinned on my chest.

The Air Medal we got for going in hot.
The Purple Heart for getting shot.
Other medals for the sacrifices I gave.
A picture of Joe who died being brave.

Then there was Doc who would never stay down.
I can still see his blood staining the ground.
Here's my P-38; I opened many a can.
Only in the Nam would you eat canned Spam.

Here's a picture of Sgt Garr.
On his second tour, he won the Silver Star.
And there was Irish with his hair so red.
I remember the ambush and then he was dead.

That's the lieutenant; he wasn't a bad guy.
He was the first guy I ever saw die.
I remember the day I returned from the war
and put my past in this dresser drawer.