He asks me for money,
Saying it's for a bowl of soup.
His words are slurred
And his breath reeks of booze,
So I lie, saying I have none.
A cigarette is the best I can do.
In exchange, he shares with me
A part of his past.
He tells me about Vietnam.
Ranting and raving about his time in war.
The only part of his ravings I understand
Is when he tells me about twelve men
Who were killed by a mine
And he knew all of their names
Originally Posted On Site: 2007-10-12 02:35:41
Last Login: 05.20.08
Visits as of 12-12-07: 57
