Written by: Wandering Butterfly

Along with the stench 
From the Vietnam swamp
Lingers many other stains
Far beyond mud and muck

I’ve washed and scrubbed
‘Til my fingers bled raw
Trying to remove the souvenirs
From my uniform cloth.

Splats of blood, of a friend,
Buried without a face,
And the revenge on the shooter,
In the very same place.

The stain, there on the arm,
Is from the night when I slept,
In a dug out, trench,
Where dead bodies were kept

There’s a cigarette burn
On the chest, over there
Self inflicted pain,
Meant to melt away care

Deeper into hell
Evert step that I took
Mayhem and murder
In all directions, it lurked

A letter arrived 
They said I could go home.
So, my buddy and I 
To the train station flown

1 week later, in Kentucky
We planted our feet
To be spat on by strangers
We passed on the street

The dirty laundry we wore
Was not held with respect,
We came home from one War
And, intercepted the next

Politicians on the news
Say, that was not a “war.”
Just a conflict, they say
So, what did our men die for?

I’ve woke up in panic,
Cold sweats, and crazed
I’ve wide opened fire
Through my home, without phase

If that don’t define war,
Then what’s this that I feel,
Are you trying to tell me,
What I saw wasn’t real?

Still yet today, I am pestered
By images, time to time
When I open that drawer
With dirty laundry inside.

All rights reserved ©
Miranda Lambert
In dedication to my Pawpaw; Frank Dials, Vietnam Veteran 
Served from 1964-1970.
He always has a hard time telling this story, but tells it bravely.