I'm Too Old For This Shit

I remember watching a TV show — must've been several years back,
When we were finally getting over our Vietnam guilt.
They showed this clip of a young grunt who'd just come back for a little R 'n' R,
Snoopin and poopin in the bush for days on end.

This dude couldn't've been more than nineteen, but his eyes were a million years old.
He stood in front of the body bags, lighting a Kool with shaky hands,
Squinting his eyes through the dust raised by the Hueys
And tried to tell Walter Cronkite how he spent his summer vacation.

He didn't talk about flickin his Zippo and burnin down a coupla hooches,
Or how Charlie blew away his main man Luther walkin point.
And if he mentioned leeches or punjis or bouncing bettys,
I couldn't hear it over the roar of the trucks.

Maybe he didn't know what to say. It was probably the first time
This Detroit brother'd ever been on TV. Now here's this famous white man
Stickin a microphone in his own bad face, and expectin to hear some jive.
He looked down and said, "I'm too old for this shit."

*****

Everyone's fighting the same damned war; I've been fighting mine for years.
Me against I, self against self: Half the time I lose, the other half he does.
I got all these psychic body bags, bags I've Zippoed to clear a landing zone,
Lost so many main men walking point for me, guys that got hit by a stray psychic round.

Sometimes late at night when I'm lying in bed thinking of all the burning hooches,
I stick a mike in my own face, and try to confess on my private TV.
I don't talk about the civilians who got in the way, like this one woman who looked at me
Not understanding why I pulled the trigger and chambered another round.

I don't talk about the inflated body count, or cruising through the streets on my own R 'n' R,
Or why we got into this mess in the first place, or about this one woman who looked at me
Not understanding why I pulled the trigger and chambered another round.
I just look down and say, "I'm too old for this shit."

I'm too old for this shit.