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Finger In A Busted Heart

A Vietnamese boy on a bicycle going very, very fast
Leaving the village, his destiny being rapidly cast

I have to give the order, for a Cong he must be
The Marine intercepts and hollers “Dong Lea”

The paddy dike is very wide but the boy runs back to the Ville
The angered Marine knocked to the ground fires a round to kill

The bullet strikes the boy in the middle of his back
And exits through his heart with a lifelong echoing crack

By this time I get there to the boy’s side, not even knowing what to do
So to do something I stick my finger in his heart, as his face turns blue

When I had gotten to him, a gusher of blood from his heart
Was spraying every guilty party with blood that had taken part

This killing like so many more was never, ever needed
But like everyone else we were deaf to what they heeded

He was just a fifteen-year-old boy, with panic and guilt
That for centuries, solid families such as his, had built

The man who shot the boy takes his own life years later and no one knows
Of just how PTSD does funny things to humans or how the story really goes

And even today, a hundred years later….I still question my call
I live every hour with the guilt, the shame, the nightmares and all
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