On a dusty street corner
Behind the HESCO’s he stood
Guarding who knew what for
Who knows why, just like
Yesterday and the day before.
He walked across no duckboards;
There were no beaches to storm,
And he froze not at the Chosin
Nor sweltered in jungles at Da Nang.
For him there was no all-out war.
Nor would he understand that concept.
He smoked Gauloises and drank Rip-It
And lived in a metal box with other men,
Cleaning the M-240 and telling dick jokes
While he and his buddies ogled girly mag’s.
Sure, it was hot and Iraq was far from the
Farm fields of Wisconsin but he did his
Duty always, even when he drew the shit
Details and was the last to know and got
Stuck pulling extra-guard shift after patrol.
No air raids, no trenches, no Audie Murphy.
No battleships, no beer and hookers in Saigon.
A sandy trip to some shit-hole with stray bullets,
PT belts after dark, CSM bitching about shaving
And buddies getting killed from time to time.
Did his time, got his ARCOM for being there,
He returned home and went back into obscurity
Taking a job as a mechanic back home; Subtle.
But oft’ recalling his buddies and hard times,
Quietly chuckling at something only they’d get.
Boredom, monotony, bureaucracy, and hyperbole –
Nonsense, bullshit, camaraderie and strife –
This is the ballad of Pvt Snuffy, everyone and no one.