I can recall my mother's cry, "My God, they've pulled his number!" And how my father looked at him, awakening from his slumber, "I'm sorry son, but Uncle Sam is sending you to war, Good luck to you, I'll pray for you and Sis will watch the store, It's Johnny this and Johnny that, and keep your head held low, And you had better hurry when the air raid sirens blow, The sirens have begun to blow, so keep your head held low, And you had better hurry now, the air raid sirens blow. The troops were clad in khaki-brown with gleeming guns a-bout, All swift and strong with confidence the enemy they'd rout, But quick their stomachs were to turn, the field was tainted red, They looked around to see, by now, there lay a thousand dead. It's Johnny this, and Johnny that, and don't you ever tire, But you had better hurry when, the foe's begun to fire, The foe's begun to fire, so don't you dare to tire, And you had better hurry now, the foe's begun to fire. And then they heard the seargent scream, "This ain't no bloomin' drill, c'mon you yellow-bellied men, we've got to take that hill" They said a prayer to God above, an' then they scaled the trench, Johnny wondered if God heard them pray, amidst the smelly stench, It's Johnny this, and Johnny that, and don't just sit and root, But you had better hurry when, the foes begun to shoot, The foes begun to shoot, so don't you dare to root, And you had better hurry now, the foe's begun to shoot. Johnny killed seven of his foes, much to his mind's suprise, Before an adversary's bullet dealt him his demise, To the men in Washington, he was just another number, But Johnny never needs to wake from his peaceful slumber. 'twas Johnny this, and Johnny that and always do your best, And there is no more hurry when, you're finally laid to rest, You're finally laid to rest, Johnny, you always did your best, There is no more hurry, now, you passed your final test.
Reason for writing:
The futility of war, and the idea, that everyone is very unique and special to those who care and love for them, but to those who control the process, they are reduced to numbers...
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Lawrence J. Henriques, the Snowman.