From Inside the Chair
Marines’ll deploy without delay
into
Iraq;
They go with grim consistency:
Afghan-
-istan.
The rounds fly fast, men hug the ground;
When all is done, the en’my’s found.
Yet they won’t see home till
the Corps has won the day.
A Soldier’s life is infantry:
The M-
Sixteen.
They operate as one machine,
Army
of One.
They sweep the field, leave no one left.
A job well-done, the joy’s bereft,
For they will not see the
praises they should receive.
Yo-ho a Sailor’s life’s: the sea,
six months
on ship.
The bunks are shared three times a day
(confined
quarters).
They rule the waves with iron might,
they roam the world to wage our fight,
and despite the jokes, they’re
entitled to dignity.
The Airmen’ll have the weekend off
for Thanks-
-giving.
They’ll have a four-day weekend on
the fourth,
July.
They’ll stay at home and drink some beer,
and sober up when Tuesday’s near,
but they’d grouse and moan if
they don’t get the weekend off.
The public sees a uniform:
they’re proud
of us.
Most do not see a distinction;
we’re fine
with that.
America, her sword and shield,
we fight for her, home or afield,
For we know that we are
brothers in uniform.