At 14, I watched the news with Chet Huntley;
He spoke of a soldier killed with less than a month in country.

The paper pictured a neighbor killed in action called Doc;
He wouldn’t be the last boy from our block. 

I was too young to understand the protesters’ tactics
And why many of them wore fatigue jackets.

The brutality of the D.N.C. protest really bothered me;
I heard many cops were hit with bags of animal feces.

Protesters saw the cops as government threats
But a lot of those cops were other-war vets.

At 17 I enlisted right after graduation;
Walking in the airport I was the target of protesters 
and their demonstration.

I will always remember those feelings of loneliness and fright;
As all vets know, the worst is at night.

I think of burial detail and the grief I found
As the mom slapped away the flag and it hit the ground.

I’m certain of her son she had always bragged;
Now all we had to replace him was our country’s flag.

The war tore my country apart
And loved ones still live with a broken heart.

College clarified mistakes the politicians made;
I pray they bore a heavy burden for the price we paid.

Once called a crybaby by a World War II vet;
The hurt from that hasn’t left me yet.

I still have a problem with some of the protesters
And demonstrators and all.

But if someone hadn’t done something
There might be 100,000 names on that wall.

If someone smarter than me can figure it all out, 
Please let me know.

It’s still way too sad for this aging G.I. Joe.