He sits on the
cot sharpening his killing knife,
a Bowie that can easily cut through metal, even steel.
Droopy Dawg, a self-appointed mercenary from Charlie Company,
takes money for patrols.
He barks in a slow southern accent
that he kills gooks for a price.
He's an expert with an M-79.
Tonight at Camp
Bearcat, before we go out tomorrow morning,
many of us are getting stoned, getting juiced,
getting totally ripped.
It is 1967 and this shit is no longer fun.
Too many of us are ending up in THE STARS AND STRIPES,
KIAs dead and going home!
to take a ride with the LRRPs
on their tracks into the bush.
He's got over $1500 on him stashed in a money belt
he had specially made in Saigon.
To some of us he's
a real up-and-coming entrepreneur,
claims he's going to start his own business
when he gets back to the world.
When the LRRPs
come back the next day
I hear Droopy bought the farm, got zapped,
that when he got to Graves Registration
all he had on him was an empty wallet
his girlfriend's picture
and a debt of death Uncle Sam could never repay.