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DREADED TUESDAY My thought scramble like thunder, In a background of flashing red. "It's a dreaded Tuesday morning," Is what my mother always said. "Time to take the garbage out," Dad'd add, "A task a son was bred." A job a nineteen year old hated, Just the menial task I dread. I think of mom and dad back home, And the girl I'd someday hope to wed. Another flash of lightning shakes me, I scramble from my fox-hole bed. Every day now, is dreaded Tuesday, I've prayed to God and even pled, To get me out of Southeast Asia, In one piece or make sure I am dead. Another dreaded Tuesday morning, In dawn's background of red. A band of enemies approaching. Time to do, "A task a son was bred." My rifle to my shoulder, my finger Squeezing the menial task I dread. "Time to take the garbage out." Again, I survive a flash of red. |
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