Music is Credence Clearwater Revival's "Fortunate Son."...
by Gary Jacobson © 2005
Good boys and true
Taught Godís Righteous Right to pursue
By goodly parents taught evil to eschew
Taught spiritual values holy spirits imbue
The magnificent gospel in their lives wrought
They that would be inheritors of the Kingdom keep
Violence ye shall not seek
Boys taught the Ten Commandments
Were Divine testaments
Sent from above
With purest love
Taught, ďThou shalt not killĒ
For any reason thou shalt not this lust fulfill
Indeed, turn the other cheek
Heavenís rewards go to he with spirit mild and meek
Petitions sons cling to the Iron Rod
Live in My peace and love,
Raining down from holy vineyards above
This prince of the land, this fortunate son
Was sent to Vietnam and handed a gun...
Should he follow precepts taught in youth elemental
Or forsake them for cruel warís carnal path of the Devil.
In the jungles, American boys faced withering hardship
Dueling egregious dictatorship
Clashing in battles grueling physical
The greater strife beaucoup mental
Boys torn between lifelong teaching
Faced a tug of war of values beseeching
Between right and wrong
Muddy as the old Mekong.
Because boys irate
Face better apocalyptic fate
Find it easier without contrition to kill
Find it easier to obliterate an enemy hill
Incinerate it with fiery napalm
Whole villages embalm
Just to oil some Washington fat catís palm
Far away old men gave boys tools to ravage
Vietnam's verdant land to savage
Shoot to kill their prime command
Whether NVA or Vietcong brigand...
Xin Loi, too much too bad
Dinky dau innocents get in the way
Maybe on the other side theyíll have a better day.
Boys defoliate Vietnam trees
Depriving very foliage of its leaves
Bringing forever poison to a sweet-and-sour land
Spew diabolical rainbow toxins on every hand
Pollute earth and streams infernally
With a plague to last an eternity
Boys bestow on guilty and innocent alike in-country.
Kills good and bad, young and old, from both sides,
Soldiers of Nam brought this evil seed back to family
To forever pollute their destiny...
Yet Vietnam still lives ... and we too still live
Soldier boys facing torments from the past
Tempestuous memories that will forever last
Still we canít understand why
We were sent where we, and our principles,
could so easily die.
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Fighting for more than the medals Iím due
War forevermore painting my violent soul blue
Where glory and honor accrue ... deathís specter ensue.
Some folks like to patriotically wave the flag
Mighty conquests in primordial mind to brag.
I just honored the red, white and blue in my heart
Thatís all...believing in finishing beginnings I start.
No, Iím not a millionaires son...
Millionaire sons didnít go to Vietnam,
'Cause it ainít no fun.
Millionaire sonsíve known no battle fatigue
Shunned putting life on the line like a plague.
Millionaireís sons wouldnít go near battle when young
Now theyíre older, glory be, see their wagging tongue.
Watch now, as they send our sons to war with fiery rhetoric
Sounds reminiscent of chants patriotically barbaric.
Iíve never been in a foxhole with a millionaires son
I reckon those with pampered lives have better things to do
Than huddling in terrorís dark till setting sun
Too paralyzed with fear to hobnob beside me and you.
Millionaireís sons know not of death, or terror firsthand
Facing up-close and personal wily Vietcong brigand.
For while we band of brothers made a stand,
Millionaireís sons were back home,
Comfortable in our native land.
Now, I donít mean to talk of war like an expert
Nor give an impudent, saucy, warmongering alert.
For Iím no millionaireís son
Iím no suddenly bold, silver-spooned, clever one.
These warriors raise hue and shout in exhausting refrain
Millionaireís sons too, sing Hosannasís in your name
Pointing the cannon at you, Lord
When it serves their purpose absurd.
Some folks are born to wave the flag,
They bleed red, white and blue, they brag.
When the band plays "Hail to the chief"in honored chord
Ooh, watch out, they point the cannon at you, Lord.
Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,
Lord, don't they help themselves, beating their own band.
But when the tax man comes calling at their door,
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale galore.
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,
As they march you down to war, Lord,
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"
Ooh, they only answer More! More! More!
Millionaireís sons ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no military son, son.
It ain't me, it ain't me;
I ain't such a fortunate one, a millionaireís son!
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one,
No no no, no millionaireís son
It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no fortunate son, no no no!
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