A friend e-mailed me about the plight of so many soldiers, from Nam, from Iraq, from Afganistan (one of them even called them "cannon fodder") but nothing has been done or will be done until all those hundred of thousand of WE get together and start kicking doors down.
We have got no respect, see if fear can call their attention, fear of seeing their political career destroyed.

Soldier, you are old as Christmas coming,
you can look over your shoulder to the past
your buddies are no there following you
they died leaving you alone, one by one,
because it was in the plan’s of somebody
needing men falling for a little piece of land.

How many Christmas came on the front?
no turkey, just C rations, worms or a rat,
maybe a Dear John letter as a present or
a jerk telling you to fight with what you had
because it has been always the same tune
that now you can hear walking on Iraq.

Doesn’t matter how old you are now, today,
you will be old as me when you come back,
the joyful look of the young replaced be, the
wrinkles in your face will be not from smiles,
welcome home, a General would say,
“soldiers just fade away, they never die.”

Soldier, you are back in America, its Christmas,
no turkey, no worms but plenty of them rats,
but you can’t chase them on a wheel-chair because
you fought with what the man said you had
and not what you wished to have in battle, so,
please, Christmas coming, please don’t cry.