GHOSTLY FEARS By Bill Hagee - 1972

The beast comes out with the moon and soon, Fear creeps up my spine,
Hate of man and some of self, Preys upon my mind;
But Marine I am and will always be, No matter what the cost,
To fight and die for God and Corps, Nullifies all I've lost.

"Lost what," you say with fascious grin, "The Corps is your life,
It is your mother and your dad, and will also be your wife;"
But I tell you I've lost too much, My freedom and my voice,
For everything that I do, Is by the Marine Corps choice.

They pay me but a pittance, For everything I do,
From dawn to dark - the day is long, Each one seems like two;
Dress like this - gig line straight, No Irish pennants flying,
Be one hundred ten percent Marine, And never think of dying.

Jump school, SCUBA School, Recon and Jungle training,
From Key West to the Phillipines, My strength is never waning;
Then on to Viet Nam, A hell hole far from home,
To fight an unknown enemy, And never think of dying alone.

But fear is there, an unseen guest, Within my tortured mind,
Turning thoughts of childhood, Into hate for all mankind;
The emotion felt when you kill a man, Is without peer in any form,
The more you kill the more the thrill, You've stepped beyond the norm.

What other job can a teenager have, That allows him to kill at will,
In fact get medals from the commandant, The more the body count's filled;
A medal!........For killing! I really like this game,
It leaves me little doubt, That it will bring me fame.

Whenever I think I've conquered fear, And have it by the balls,
Out of the blue comes a ghostly voice, "Marine....You're due a fall;"
My hair stands straight and goose bumps rise, Up and down my spine,
For death is real in this hellish place, And soon it may be my time.

Brothers have fallen by enemy hand, And some by friendly fire,
Their dreams are lost and life is gone, A body bag their only attire;
Flag draped coffin at a stateside grave, With mourners crying loud,
The preacher stands at the head of it all, Claiming all present should be proud.

For this warrior fought and died, For a cause he didn't know
The reason for the battles, Or the senselessness of those
Who sit in plush offices, On the Potomac's hallowed shores,
Who use these warriors young and old, Like a two-bit Bangkok whore.

The fear comes back and strangles, My dreams when I'm asleep,
My wife's afraid to touch me, For the terror has grown deep;
Within my soul I panic, When I hear a sing-song voice,
Then hate rises to bind me, In this there is no choice.

Can it be that my mind is gone, And only a shell remains
Of the man that I once was, Because of that deadly game?
They called an action--not a war, Believe me it really was,
For I stood within harms way, And felt the hand of God.

Copyright © By Bill Hagee 1972, All Rights Reserved