THE  STREETS OF BAGHDAD

By

C. Neuroticus Absolutus

I no longer have the means, you see,

To climb a ladder or a tree,

To fly down Aspen’s slopes

On flexing knee.

Fleet feet brought football fame,

Everybody knew my name.

They cheered me when I played hard,

Won the game.

Push my wheelchair, won’t you, lad?

I remember when I had

Two good legs and ran like hell

Through the empty streets of Baghdad.

Straight along the bombed-out road,

Buddies each with his own load

Beside me, sucking hard for air.

Worse times we never knowed.

No one saw the IED

Buried in the dirt near me.

A coward took both legs from me,

A man I couldn’t see.

Push my wheelchair, won’t you, lad?

I remember when I had

Two good legs and ran like hell

Through the awful streets of Baghdad.

Landstuhl first, then Walter Reed.

Patches, Band-Aids, all you need

To heal your broken body;

Some high-fives for your deed.

Some guy speaks, begins to rave.

Pins a ribbon, says, “You’re brave.”

Makes a big thing of it all,

Says, “You’re not ready for the grave.”

Push my wheelchair, won’t you, lad?

I remember when I had

Two good legs and ran like hell

Through the ugly streets of Baghdad.

What about my life and dreams?

My nightly sweats? Those ghostly screams?

For those who fell beside me

The bugle’s metal gleams.

Come on down to my VA,

Foreign doctors, contract pay.

Bored government servants

Waste my whole damned day.

Push my wheelchair, won’t you, lad?

I remember when I had

Two good legs and ran like hell

Through the bloody streets of Baghdad.

Where are my friends for life?

Where’s my ever-faithful wife?

Pity has replaced their love.

It cuts me like a knife.

They’re looking, but they’ve yet to find

The proper medicine for my mind.

Dark memories still run through my head.

Boy, I need you to be kind.

Push my wheelchair, won’t you, lad?

Do it for your dear old dad.

Hell, I didn’t want to be there

In the killing streets of Baghdad.

I’ve tried all the remedies.

Booze and babes, psychiatries,

Hypnosis, shock, nightmarish dreams.

STOP IT! No more, I beg, please.

Stop messin’ with my head.

Damnit, Doc! Give me, instead,

Two legs so I can walk again!

Else, I’d rather just be dead.

This freakin’ wheelchair, I bemoan.

I’ve lots more oats yet to be sown.

I’ll never have two legs to roam

The apathetic streets of home.