I don't want to go 
over there 
dressed from head to toe 
in army wear, 
to choke on cordite stench, 
to kill an innocent child, 
to sleep in a muddy trench, 
and, in battle fear, go wild, 
to stand in front of and behind 
a weapon's sights, 
to fight when I am blind 
in thunder nights. 
Yet I admire those who do 
want to die 
so that our red, white, and blue 
flag can fly, 
giving up even thought 
to pay the price 
with which freedom is bought, 
for men like mice, 
those of us behind walls, 
telling them what to do, 
not really understanding how one falls, 
when death strikes true. 
every death better count 
for something worth doing 
or sending them is tantamount 
to treason-brewing. 

June 28, 1985