|I'm a fortunate son of the red, white and blue|
Fighting for more than the medals I'm due
War forevermore painting my violent soul blue
Where glory and honor accrue... death's specter ensue.
Some folks like to patriotically wave the flag
Mighty conquests in primordial mind to brag.
I just honored the red, white and blue in my heart
That's all... believing in finishing beginnings I start.
No, I'm not a millionaire's son...
Millionaire sons didn't go to Vietnam,
�Cause it ain't no fun.
Millionaire sons've known no battle fatigue
Shunned putting life on the line like a plague.
Millionaire's sons wouldn't go near battle when young
Now they're older, glory be, see their wagging tongue.
Watch now, as they send our sons to war with fiery rhetoric
Sounds reminiscent of chants patriotically barbaric.
I've never been in a foxhole with a millionaires son
I reckon those with pampered lives have better things to do
Than huddling in terror's dark till setting sun
Too paralyzed with fear to hobnob beside me and you.
Millionaire's sons know not of death, or terror firsthand
Facing up-close and personal wily Vietcong brigand.
For while we band of brothers made a stand,
Millionaire's sons were back home,
Comfortable in our native land.
Now, I don't mean to talk of war like an expert
Nor give an impudent, saucy, warmongering alert.
For I'm no millionaire's son
I'm no suddenly bold, silver-spooned, clever one.
These warriors raise hue and shout in exhausting refrain
Millionaire's sons too, sing Hosannas in your name
Pointing the cannon at you, Lord
When it serves their purpose absurd.
Some folks are born to wave the flag,
They bleed red, white and blue, they brag.
When the band plays "Hail to the Chief" in honored chord
Ooh, watch out, they point the cannon at you, Lord.
Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,
Lord, don't they help themselves, beating their own band.
But when the tax man comes calling at their door,
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale galore.
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,
As they march you down to war, Lord,
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"
Ooh, they only answer: More! More! More!
Millionaire's sons ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no military son, son.
It ain't me, it ain't me;
I ain't such a fortunate one, a millionaire's son!
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one,
No, no, no, no millionaire's son
It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no fortunate son, no, no, no!
|By Gary Jacobson|
Listed July 22, 2010
About Author... In 1966-67, Gary Jacobson served with B Co 2nd/7th 1st Air Cavalry in Vietnam as a combat infantryman and is the recipient of the Purple Heart.
Gary, who resides in Idaho writes stories he hopes are never forgotten, perhaps compelled by a Vietnamese legend that says, "All poets are full of silver threads that rise inside them as the moon grows large." So Gary says he writes because "It is that these silver threads are words poking at me � I must let them out. I must! I write for my brothers who cannot bear to talk of what they've seen and to educate those who haven't the foggiest idea about the effect that the horrors of war have on boys-next-door."
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