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April 20, 2006
Poor Lad (a poem)
A mother weeps with tears that burn,
From her son's death will she not learn?
Will she then honor what she lost,
Pay tribute to his personal cost?
Or will she use his death to preach,
Perched on his coffin will she screech,
And damn the cause her dead son served,
Her special spot in hell reserved?
There are those many who agree,
This mother has a voice that's free,
To vent her anger scream her sorrow,
Remind us all of death's tomorrow.
But what of those men fighting there?
Must they this mother's anger bear?
Mad mother questioning what they do,
Who disrespects our valiant few.
I'm tired of her public pass to grieve,
From the media world, she now should leave,
And give her son's poor soul some rest,
Stop undermining our bravest best,
Who fight to let this woman speak,
To let her scream, to let her shriek,
Her misguided hatred of her nation.
And the very ones give her salvation.
Oh, Cindy please fade into night,
And cease your rage against the light,
That illuminates your dead son's goal,
The saving grace that guards his soul,
Which sadly you can't seem to see,
What he sought most is victory;
A victory that his buddies won,
Now they, not you, salute your son.
How tragic that a soldier's death should be so poorly used;
Poor lad, so sad, so tragically, by his mother so abused.
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division Vietnam 65—66