Poetry

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REMEMBER
By Bob Pruitt

Well, it's Memorial weekend again
A time for food and fest for most.
So, may I take a moment to
Raise up a little toast.
I'll speak of a friend of mine,
His name was Jacky Lipsey.
It was in the summer of sixty-nine
And we were drunk and tipsy.
We both went off to war that year;
Never saw each other again.
We both were glad to serve,
To fight for God and country.
We didn't think "What's wrong;
What's right". Just let us do our duty.
I came home in seventy-six;
My mind a mess from drugs and war.
And on the porch that summer day
I learned of Jacky's fate.
One bullet in his head, another in his arm
And one in his leg. An ambush in the jungle.
But it wasn't lead that killed him.
He came home to ridicule and shame.
A cane to move around with a plate in his head.
His days were filled with morphine and dread.
Until that sad and fateful night,
When his mother found him dead.
Jacky didn't die in Vietnam, but it
Killed him just the same.
His name isn't on the Wall
And of that I am ashamed.
This is a story sad but true
It's not of glory; or red, white, and blue.
I'm not sure what I should say
As I think of what I've written.
But as you go about your ways
With BBQ's and cookouts
Take a moment to reflect
And show respect to
All the Jacky Lipsey's.



May 25, 2006

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