Stress!
Doc, you don't know shit
About stress
But let me set my piece
On three round bursts
And I'll be glad to teach you.

It's being on the bird
Tan Son Nhut to base camp
Seeing a mushroom cloud

Not knowing all bombs make one
And from your fear of nukes
Pissing in your pants.

The crew saying nothing
From fear they might
Be next to freak.

It is 17 years
Of the straight life
Down the toilet bowl

'Cause it finally dawned
On your child bride
She's better off without you.

Without you
Your mood swings
Your inability to cope.

It's a life of
Jobless, homeless
Futureless, futility.

Knowing your last lover
Was probably
Your last love

"Cause you are
Fat and bald
And fifty-something.

It's being a
Ward of the State
Receiving your reward

Three hots and a cot
For the pants you pissed
The people you killed

The clap you caught
The years you lost
To nightmares

Stress!
Doc, you measure it
I live it
Thinking it's only
One more way
To jumpstart my heart.

Than Son Nhut was the Saigon Airport.
All bombs do make mushroom clouds. The size and colors vary.
I'm the one holding the sword and severed head of a literary critic.