By Neil Wetsch, 30 May 2003
They call me a soldier. I fought in our war.
I am really a boy. Just turned eighteen.
We trained to kill and be real mean.
Some call me a warrior. I fought in our war.
But when the bullets fly.
I am, afraid to die.
Some call me a killer. I fought in our war.
Seeing death…shocked and scared.
After a while, I never cared.
Some call me a patriot. I fought in our war.
But in battle only your buddies are there.
In the shit together… you all took the dare.
Some call me tough. I fought in our war.
See your friends in pieces, turned gray and cold.
I promise, you do not feel very bold.
Some call me wrong. I fought in our war.
Their intentions may be good or maybe bad.
They do not know. They make me so sad.
Some call me lucky. I fought in our war.
You get to meet life, straight in the face.
Those are real bullets, not protester mace.
Some call me friend. I fought in our war.
Buddies, laugh and joke, sometimes we cry.
We know any moment…it may be time to die.
Some call me son. I fought in our war.
My family wants me home.
I miss them so much…but can only moan.
Some call me a soldier. I fought in our war.
My friends are playing cards in the tent.
I am not with them. For it is home I am sent.
They called me a soldier. I fought in our war.
Everyone will be sad to see me you know.
I will go home, not to my bed.
I am returning…as one of your dead.