Hey Baby

When I was new, the squad warned me
not to get close to kids in doorways.
Some dude named Wilmore got famous
the week before I transferred in.

Story goes that him an' his wife were
plannin' to be missionaries to Africa
when Lyndon Johnson decided
him and a few hundred thousand other guys
oughta play boy scouts in Asia instead.

So he was out here humpin' the boonies
like everybody else, but stayin' straighter
than a lot of dudes -- writin' home a lot,
readin' his pocket testament, sniffin' out
chaplains whenever they were around instead
of blowin' joints, sluicin' sauce, or
chasin' the hootch maids for a little tail
when company stood down at base camp.

But then he got the letter from the missus
sayin' she was sorry and all, but it seemed
God's Perfect Will for her to become
his brother's keeper, so the two of 'em was
flyin' to Reno for six weeks for the divorce
and remarriage and Africa was definitely off.

Wilmore played zombie for a couple days, just
movin' as per orders and never sayin' a word.
Instead of readin' his testament, he filled his
free time stencilin' his helmet cover with
"Kill a Commie for Christ."

Next search-and-destroy they ran,
he seemed OK through the first firefight,
but when they moved on through the next ville
which everyone knew was Charlie's favorite
for rice and tea stops and practically nobody --
man, woman or dog -- seemed to be around,
Wilmore spots this baby lyin' in a doorway
which you gotta know is wired for sound
and sure enough he never quite finishes
pickin' it up.

(c) Copyright R. S. Carlson 1987

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