September 11, 2004
The sun and dust are welded into a crusty sheet.
That sticks upon your body in the vicious August heat,
And your joints are sore and shaken on the long road to Tikrit.
A Humvee heads the column, another guards the back,
The middle, three trucks rolling down this God forsaken track,
Its just another hundred miles ‘til he could hit the sack.
A load of bottled water and ammo for the guns,
And MREs on pallets and bullets weighed in tons,
It’s got to get to Tikrit to feed our hungry sons.
His eyes were red and burning, his nose was caked with dust,
He did not think about this war or whether it was just,
He only hoped he’d make it through and wondered who to trust.
The light was dim and fading, his sight no longer keen,
He did not hear the bomb go off, the shooter was unseen,
And then he wasn’t nothing, just another dead Marine.