"The Men of Spring"
Midnight at Paris Island,
met by drill sergeants screaming threats.
we marched through the gates to h**l;
humid walls cover us in sweat.
Eight weeks of punishing training
and we become the few, the proud,
brothers unafraid to challenge death
heading toward war riding on a cloud.
I remember the men of spring,
young soldiers outfitted in green;
raw inexperienced and lean,
with plans and hopes and dreams.
Forty years since that time they passed
and I know where they have all gone
Seventy names on a Washington wall
they were the Marines of Viet Nam
If summer, autumn and winter
were theirs I wonder who they would become
To their mothers, fathers, sisters
they're Marines that never came home.
note: Seventy two of us were in that platoon; only
two survived.
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