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Medic |
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Medic, the Devil's again raising Cain
Roistering bloodletting barbarity in motley war insane.
Where evil fights hand-to-hand to deplete God's morality
Where dusky fiends wager man's very mortality
Unholy minions altering remains of a grunt's humanity
Spilling red blood in a killing field's mirthless inanity
Winning evil's battle with good in grim depravity.
Medic, fly from the very pits of hell to a grunt's soul steal
Dustoff's brave heroes bearing God's own zeal
Quick, ride to their rescue on horses of steel
Quick, get in � get out � Medevac
Lift weary wounded warriors from the virulent attack
Quick, before the Devil shows his final reel
Save lives, before Satan plays his final deal.
Quick, for American boys lay dying in the tree line
Red rivers coursing down dusty body's supine
Tears flowing fears mid death's unholy rattle whine
Quick, go where raging evil's more'n grunts can bear
Boys torn asunder in a destitute land of savage despair
|Brave boys waging with demons a final duel to death �
Only seconds remain before they breathe final breath.
Quick, save the brotherhood
Before the Devil pillages the very remnants of good
Scourging conscience in the black wood
Desecrating man's primordial ace-in-the-hole
Razing boyhood innocence in an infantryman's soul
Burning in hell-borne strife
His tempestuous legions come to rob sacred life.
Quick, get in � get out � Medevac
Lift weary wounded warriors from man's virulent attack
Quick, ride to the rescue on horses of steel
Fly from the very pits of hell to a grunts soul steal
Quick, before the Devil shows his final reel
Save lives, before the Master of Death makes his final deal
O medic, commissioned by God, His boys to heal. |
By
Gary Jacobson
Copyright 2009
Listed
August 24, 2010 |
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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."
Visit Gary Jacobson's site for more information
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