I am currently at a Navy marina. I always find it interesting when I learn something about one of my fellow sailors. I share my recent discovery of a poet among my brothers:
Without the wind beneath my wings,
I often think of home.
Like pages in a summer breeze,
They leave me all alone.
When I’m not building bunkers,
Counting camels, or swatting flies,
I listen to
And all it’s deadly lies.
I don’t know what to really think,
It’s hard to play the part.
For deep inside I feel some pain,
Beneath my trembling heart.
Last week there was some talk,
And now we’re here to stay.
If only we could figure out,
Our Allies, for the day.
It’s hard to be a soldier,
In this, foreign, desert land,
Where economics, more than life,
They count as something grand.
Some think that war is glorious,
Magnificent and bold.
In truth it takes our young men,
And makes them very old.
But if you say that we must fight,
Then, here, we’ll make our stand.
Just do not cry –
When our blood runs dry,
On this dirty desert land.
Copywrite Ken Scillieri1991 all rights reserved
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