(For Memorial Day, a
WWII-era poem)
So you’re tired working,
Mister, and
you think you’ll rest a bit
You’ve been working pretty
steady
and you’re tired and sick of it
You think the war is
ending, so
you’re slowing down the pace
But I want to tell you,
Mister, that
just ain’t the case
What would you think,
Mister, if we
quit because we’re tired to?
We’re flesh and blood and
human
and just the same as you
Did you ever dig a foxhole
and
climb down inside
And wish it went to China,
so you’d
have some place to hide—
While Motor Buzzards
packed with guns
were circling overhead
And filling the ground
around you
with hot exploding lead?
Did you ever dig out,
Mister, from
slime and mud and dirt
And feel yourself all over
to see
where you were hurt
And find you could not
move
though you were not hurt at all
And feel so darned relieved
that
you sat there and bawled?
Were you ever hungry,
Mister, not
that kind that gluts
But the groaning cutting
hunger
that bites inside your guts?
It’s a homesick hunger,
Mister, that
slips around inside
It’s got you in its
clutches and
there ain’t no place to
hide
Were you ever dirty,
Mister, not
the wilty collar kind
But the oozy, slimy, mussy
dirt
and gritty kind that grinds?
Did you ever mind the
heat, Mister
not the kind that makes you sweat
But the kind that drives
you crazy
even after the sun has set
Were you ever weary,
Mister, I
mean dog tired, you know
Where your feet ain’t got
no feeling
and your legs don’t want to go?
But we keep on going,
Mister, you
bet your life we do
And let me tell you,
Mister, we expect
the same of you
