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Music is Credence Clearwater Revival's "Fortunate Son."... 
by Gary Jacobson © 2005 
Good boys and true Taught God’s Righteous Right to pursue By goodly parents taught evil to eschew Taught spiritual values holy spirits imbue Painstakingly taught 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, “Thou shalt not kill” For any reason thou shalt not this lust fulfill Indeed, turn the other cheek Heaven’s 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 war’s 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 cat’s 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 So sad Dinky dau innocents get in the way Maybe on the other side they’ll 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, our brethren. 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 can’t understand why We were sent where we, and our principles, could so easily die.
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Fighting for more than the medals I’m due War forevermore painting my violent soul blue Where glory and honor accrue ... death’s 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 That’s all...believing in finishing beginnings I start. No, I’m not a millionaires son... Millionaire sons didn’t go to Vietnam, 'Cause it ain’t no fun. Millionaire sons’ve known no battle fatigue Shunned putting life on the line like a plague. Millionaire’s sons wouldn’t go near battle when young Now they’re 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. I’ve never been in a foxhole with a millionaires son I reckon those with pampered lives have better things to do Than huddling in terror’s dark till setting sun Too paralyzed with fear to hobnob beside me and you. Millionaire’s 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, Millionaire’s sons were back home, Comfortable in our native land. Now, I don’t mean to talk of war like an expert Nor give an impudent, saucy, warmongering alert. For I’m no millionaire’s son I’m no suddenly bold, silver-spooned, clever one. These warriors raise hue and shout in exhausting refrain Millionaire’s sons too, sing Hosannas’s 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! Millionaire’s 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 millionaire’s son! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, No no no, no millionaire’s son It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son, no no no! Please Be Kind and sign my Guestbook, |
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