Sister, I'm a Poet

Despite That Colored Fellas' call for therapy for all of us who suffer from Compulsive Pun Disorder, I've done it again in the title of this post. What can I say? - I'm hopeless. My only excuse is that I hardly think most people will recognize the song....

Anyway, as per that subject header, it appears that yours truly has garnered second place in the American Street's "You Go to War with What You Have" poetry contest. The rules, and comments about the judging, are here. The top three poems can be seen here.

In short, the rules were that you had to use Rumsfeld's unfortunate aforementioned line. My entry was as follows:

You go to war with what you have,
And I had dreams of glory,
Now long replaced with nightmares
And an all too familiar story.

An army of one, I’m a father and son,
And a brother—one of three.
The army with which you’ve gone to war
Is replete with men just like me.

You go to war with what you have;
We were told we had the best.
I strode into the combat zone
With Kevlar on my chest.

Some vehicles were armored well
The rest good armor lacked.
We scavenged for scrap metal, and
Hoped we would not be attacked.

You go to war with what you have,
And we fought for proper protection.
The enemy seemed a distant threat
As we fought fatigue and infection.

We fought the hunger gripping our guts,
We fought against thirst, stress, and pain.
We waited for rebels and roadside bombs
And fought against going insane.

You go to war with what you have,
Your fears, your flaws, your charms.
But in a moment, what you have can be lost;
I gave up one leg and both arms.

I gave up my innocence and any thought
That war was no more than a game.
You go to war with what you have
And hope you come back the same.

Grim stuff. And I dedicate it to you, Mr. Rumsfeld.

Thanks to those who saw fit to include me among the winners.

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