Dirty Laundry On Vietnam

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. 04/19/2011 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. RESPECT THE VETS!!!!