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Flint Brian's Song My two-year old grandson bangs The piano or his toy guitar And sings "My Daddy's in Sabi Abia." But Brian won't talk anymore About his father Except to say, sometimes, "Daddy gone airplane." And Daddy is gone airplane. From the Ft. Campbell airstrip With his rucksack, gas mask, M- 16, and desert camouflage. "Chocolate chip," the soldiers Call their brown and tan gear. Two sets, sunglasses, canteens, And live ammo, seven clips. Half a million young Americans Ready to fight and die In a holy war against the second-hand Hitler To protect the world order And our right to cheap gasoline. Not being a president Or a major shareholder in Texaco I can't share the Warlike greed, passion, and excitement. My only investment in the Saudi sands Is mere flesh and blood. My son, Brian's father. And the only return we want on our investment Is a live soldier, home again. —Garry Barker I followed my tireless father down the long, green corn rows all that scorching hot summer until his broad shoulders slumped. The team of mismatched horses strained in their harness against that dark earth. I was rewarded with pieces of sharp flint shaped by other human hands. My pragmatic father wanted some more tangible crop. We plowed the same ground over and over until, finally, nothing was left for us but to collect what we'd earned, not only from honest sweat but our dreams as well. Now, he lies here with nothing else among these same dreams while terrible birds with sharp claws tear at his caved-in chest. He weighs less than a sack of corn. I pray unceasingly his death will be an easy one; that he won't be any great burden on this earth we both love and hate for our own private reasons. —Glenn F. Jackson 26 ...

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