Bloodshed is glorious - a draftee's delusionnFostered by Hollywood and faith in the unionnHe packed up his scrapbook, said farewell to his mothernNow he had not a home, just a new band of brothersnSam was his new Lord, whose mercy was phonynA carbine his lover, the trigger her quoniamnBlue waters shrank beneath as Wagner resoundednYet he was only a pawn, in servitude groundednnDear young Rebel, bow to your unclenRaise up the flag, support it from underneathnDon't worry, Rebel, they'll bring you back home soonnParades and medals for your platoonnnWhat are we doing here? He started wonderingnWith the natives never tiring, the weapons always firingnFrom somewhere in the distant brush; the Rebel swore he'd had enoughnIf only he knew what was comingnDeep in the jungle his company was creepingnThey saw up ahead a yellow boy weepingnA soldier moved in, and the little boy rannIt was too late by then; they saw the black on his handsnOn top of a land mine the soldier was broilednBy gunpowder made on American soilnFrom the charred melted flesh came a series of criesnLike Have mercy, Lord! and Sweet Jesus Christ!nnOh, dear Rebel, war sure ain't prettynBut you must remember the investments of Washington D.C.nThose who die are heroes, but those who run are rottennHang in there, Rebel, and you'll never be forgottennnThat same night, the orders came throughnFrom a faceless man over the radio:nThere's a little town about a mile westnTake supplies, burn the buildings down, and you know the restnWell, the Rebel knew it wasn't his choicenA gear in a machine doesn't get a voicenThe soldiers conserved their ammunitionnAnd slit every yellow throat in sight - a successful missionnIt's a funny thing, killing those you've never metnSo the Rebel laughed aloud as his insides wept, screaming,nAll you yellow bastards, I hope you've seen what we can donWhen you fuck with freedom, there'll be red, black, and bluennOh, dear Rebel, I'm afraid you're going madnWhen killing gets personal, you know it's getting badnYou see, war's a business and your country needs controlnOf your mind, of your body, of your heart, and your soulnDon't you get nostalgic for your welcome mat's alluren'Cuz home ain't coming soon, you got another tournnMore rounds exchanged, wounds exchanged, and deaths exchangednThe birds exchanged glances, and declared men insanenMorale was getting low on the good guys' sidenThe Rebel fighting merely to save his own lifenWell, the reaper was so busy collecting all the souls,nThat he overlooked dear Rebel, but war still took its tollnYou could see the skull behind his eyes, and his words were but a fewnWhen the men in suits shook his hand and said I'm proud of younA nation polarized, each side holding its ownnSome blindly waving flags, some blindly throwing stonesnThe Rebel watched and wondered if there'd ever be a pointnIn crying out for peace as long as man was minting coinsnnOh, dear Rebel, men will be mennThe important thing right now is to get back to your friendsnAnd your aging mother too, I'm certain she misses younTry to smile wide for her, don't you let her see insidennThe Rebel didn't smile when the landlord gave the newsnHis mother was evicted when she couldn't pay the duesnSo he interviewed the neighbors, their answers only variednYet he found what he was looking for in a brief obituary:nA widow, fifty-two, died from cancer of the lungnFighting bravely overseas is her single loving sonnnAnd he's been feeling sorry ever sincenCan only place the blame on the Charlies and the DinksnThose people passing by on winter afternoonsnThey curse him for his laziness, and drop a dime or twonOnce he earns eleven-fifty, he can buy a fifth of whiskeynA temporary blanket from the ever-icy staresnHe isn't proud of killing men, but content with killing timenHe doesn't need your pity, only money for cheap winennDear old Rebel, keep telling your talenPassing sighs and pickup lines, slurred words that seem to sailnIt don't matter where your eyes are, glazed and robbed of rest,nWhen your mind's drifting to a dusty heaven in the warmth of the Southwest