They were American freedom fighters
In a foreign land called Vietnam,
And I was too young
To actually know what happened,
But I’ve heard their tales.
The jungle warfare—the platoons
Villages burned to the ground
And children carrying grenades
Cries of death and suffering
Echoed throughout the pristine
hills and valleys
Of Vietnam
Wild fires that burned the land
Spread for miles, unyielding
Poverty and disease stricken people—
Their home,
Fighting to the death to protect—
Their home.
Soldiers stripped of their skin
Impaled to the stake to dry-rot
Young girl and boy snipers they
shot.
America’s freedom fighters
Forever in the land of palm trees
and poppies—
Left for dead and thought deceased,
While at home the stress increased.
Where is my father and how did he
die?
We have no body and they tell us
lies
Of how he died in a ferocious
battle
In Vietnam under smoke-filled
skies.
Deep in the jungle of a foreign
land
Forgotten by his government
Lives a man—an American
The heroic freedom fighter
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