Don’t thank me for my service. You have no concept of the things I’ve seen.
Don’t thank me for my service. You have no clue what I did.
Don’t thank me for my service. You have no understanding of the things I did.
Don’t thank me for my service. You have no idea what it was really like.
Don’t thank me for my service. Unless you’d like to share my demons.
Don’t thank me for my service.
Just don’t.
I might be now an elder,
Or just an ancient fool,
Never dreamt I’d live this long,
Still learning in life’s school,
Some lessons come with lots of pain,
And cause a lasting change,
Some are found to be for naught,
Just to show that life is strange,
Sometimes it’s down to pass or fail,
Other times it’s open book,
Still some people fail at this,
I guess they didn’t look.
I concocted this nightmare,
About skeletons in the closet,
They need to be dragged out,
And laid to their proper rest,
So that we can go forward,
And try not to put any more in there,
America needs to do the same with hers,
Sometimes you just don’t know,
If something will scratch your itch,
Or just get you killed,
Or worse yet,
Land you in jail,
Or worst af all,
Let you get away with it,
To eat at your conscience,
For fity or so years.
Even in this saddest season,
Give thanks, there is always reason,
Remember those that went before,
Consider how they made you more,
Take to heart the lessons learned,
Don’t waste regret on bridges burned,
Give thanks for knowing right from wrong,
And friends that help you to belong.
Bright as the clear day sun,
I can’t help but turn away,
My heart still tells me turn back,
But I don’t have a thing to say,
My old and jaded heart,
Is pretty hard to sway,
But she always draws my eye,
And I don’t know what to say,
When I turn around, she’s there,
I can only hope she’ll stay,
I know it’s not my place to ask,
I can’t find a thing to say,
I never know just what to say,
So I sit here all alone,
Every one just walks away
‘Cause I don’t know what to say,
I concocted this nightmare,
About skeletons in the closet,
They need to be dragged out,
And laid to their proper rest,
So that we can go forward,
And try not to put any more in there,
America needs to do the same with hers,
Man boys in tin kites,
Far from home but still privileged,
More than the guys in the tin dragonflies,
The carcasses of which,
Would be dragged back to camp,
By others of their kind nearly every day,
And these were still more privileged,
Than the men, women and children,
Who called this deadly place their home.
Red dirt and rock,
Just an empty place,
Surely there is something in another direction,
Picture after picture,
Still an empty place,
Just loneliness incarnate.
Sometimes you just don’t know,
If something will scratch your itch,
Or just get you killed,
Or worse yet,
Land you in jail,
Or worst af all,
Let you get away with it,
To eat at your conscience,
For fity or so years.