Mama
Mama
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
I'm writing this letter
And wishing you well.
Mama, we all go to hell.
He sat there. In the midst of silence writing on a dingy piece of paper. Ripped, torn around the edges and crinkled. All that could be heard was silent chatter among his fellow soldiers, the occasional cough and a cool breeze every now and then. He held a black pen in his large, dirty hand as he wrote in a delicate cursive. A letter to his mother. He told her of the horrid deaths, of his hell-hole location in a frightening foreign country, of his terrible nightmares. Full of demons and ghost that tried to wisk him away.
Oh well now, Mama, we're all gonna die.
Mama, we're all gonna die.
Stop asking me questions.
I'd hate to see you cry.
Mama, we're all gonna die.
He told of the death of his best friend. How his last words were, "I love my country." How his tears left clean lines through the caked up grime on his face. How his friend's blood stained his uniform for days and started to flake on his hands after it had dried. How he cried for the first time in years long after his friend's dead body lie cold and stiff in his arms.
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fire just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh so, famous.
We'll never let you go.
And when you go don't return to me, my love.
Oh, how he dreamed of hell. How he'd rather burn for eternity in the firey pits than to await his death, which lurked in every gun, carved on every bullet, on this cold and wreched earth. He looked down at his bitten and chipped nails that were black from dirt and sighed. His thick breath floated in the crisp air.
Mama, we're all full of lies.
Mama, we're meant for the flies.
And right now
They're building
A coffin
Your size.
Mama, we're all full of lies.
He crumpled up the paper, put it in his pouch and pulled out another sheet that he had folded in his back pocket. Almost an exact replica of the first paper and began writing again. From scratch. He told of the beautiful scenes and funny jokes he had heard from fellow soldiers. He told of the interesting animals he had encountered and the gorgeous beaches with pure, white sand and clear water.
Well, Mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue.
You shoulda a raised a baby girl.
I should have been a better son.
If you can coddle the infection
They can amputate at once.
You shoulda been.
I could have been a better son.
When he had finished he signed it, "Love always, Scott." Then folded it into thirds and placed it neatly into an envelope just as raggity and the letter itself. He put it back into his back pocket and looked down at his leg. He stared at an enormous gash on the top of his right thigh. It was two to three inches deep, six or seven inches long and an inch wide. He touched it softly and winced. He picked out the fabric of his uniform that I somewhat scabbed into his leg. He didn't think it was a big deal. At least he could still walk...
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fire just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh so, famous.
We'll never let you go.
Suddenly. Shots were fired. Not just one or two but hundreds. No. Thousands. He jerked his head around in alarm just like every other soldier. He heard shouts. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? IT'S TIME TO FIGHT FOR YOUR FUCKING COUNRTY," his sergent yelled and started firing away aimlessly into the woods in the direction the bullets came from. He strapped his rifle on tight over his shoulder and followed lead. He got on one knee and shot from behind a thick tree. In the distance, he could see enemy soldiers rushing them with ugly, brown uniforms and big, black boots that ran up their shins.
She said, "You ain't no son of mine.
For what you done they're gonna find
A place for you and just you mind
Your manners when you go.
And when you go don't return to me, my love."
He remembered what his Mother had told him once before he went to war. His God-fearing Mother. She said in sadness before he left, "Thou shall not kill." He remembered her dark eyes and the emptiness that consumed them. Those words rang in his head over and over but he still fired at the enemy. He never really believed in God anyway. He had never done him any good. Besides. It was his duty. As an American.
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
It's really quite pleasant,
Except for the smell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
After only a few hours worth of fighting, the dead lay sprawled on the icy ground. The sickening smell of rotting corpses filled the air. The stench of death hung over the battlefield like fog. Blood ran deep into the earth. As if it was feeding Mother Nature what she so truly deserved. Crimson blood that smelled of copper stained his skin. Tears welled in his eyes.
Mama, Mama, Mama.
Mama, Mama, Mama, Ma.
His father had died in a war. This was the only way to go. This was the right way to go. But his poor, poor Mother. A woman of 60 plus years. Lived past her husband. Would she have to bury her son as well? But she would gain honor. Honor. Oh, glorious honor.
"And if you would call me your sweetheart,
I'd maybe then sing you a song."
He imagined her crying at a funeral. Not his father's. But his. His pale body lay awkward in a coffin. Stiff and unappealing. His mother fell to the floor in tears. Her dear old heart about to explode from all of the pain and agony. Aunts and cousins comforted her but there is no way to heal a wound that deep. He felt sick to his stomach.
But there's shit that I've done
With this fuck of a gun.
You would cry out your eyes all along.
Even louder shots snatched him from his dream. He turned and fired. Clear in the middle of his opponent's eyes. Brains splattered on the tree behind him. His first kill that he saw up close. He held back vomit.
We're damned after all.
Through fortune and flame we fall.
And if you can stay
Then I'll show you the way
To return to the ashes you call.
"RETREAT!" He turned and saw the army running back. He followed suit. He panted. Though it was cold outside, inside he was burning up. He felt as if his lungs were on fire. His leg. His leg slowed him down and he couldn't keep up with the rest. He fell significantly behind. A shock. Two shocks. One through his right shoulder blade the other through his lower back. He gawked. A noise that normally comes from a wounded animal escaped his throat. He fell to his knees and looked down. Two huge holes were ripped in his chest. He coughed up vomit and blood. A confused looked spread across his face and he fell to his home in hell. His wide, pale, blue eyes frozen in time.
We all carry on.
Though my brothers in arms are gone.
So raise your glass high,
For tomorrow we die,
And return from the ashes you call.
Mama, we all go to hell.
I'm writing this letter
And wishing you well.
Mama, we all go to hell.
He sat there. In the midst of silence writing on a dingy piece of paper. Ripped, torn around the edges and crinkled. All that could be heard was silent chatter among his fellow soldiers, the occasional cough and a cool breeze every now and then. He held a black pen in his large, dirty hand as he wrote in a delicate cursive. A letter to his mother. He told her of the horrid deaths, of his hell-hole location in a frightening foreign country, of his terrible nightmares. Full of demons and ghost that tried to wisk him away.
Oh well now, Mama, we're all gonna die.
Mama, we're all gonna die.
Stop asking me questions.
I'd hate to see you cry.
Mama, we're all gonna die.
He told of the death of his best friend. How his last words were, "I love my country." How his tears left clean lines through the caked up grime on his face. How his friend's blood stained his uniform for days and started to flake on his hands after it had dried. How he cried for the first time in years long after his friend's dead body lie cold and stiff in his arms.
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fire just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh so, famous.
We'll never let you go.
And when you go don't return to me, my love.
Oh, how he dreamed of hell. How he'd rather burn for eternity in the firey pits than to await his death, which lurked in every gun, carved on every bullet, on this cold and wreched earth. He looked down at his bitten and chipped nails that were black from dirt and sighed. His thick breath floated in the crisp air.
Mama, we're all full of lies.
Mama, we're meant for the flies.
And right now
They're building
A coffin
Your size.
Mama, we're all full of lies.
He crumpled up the paper, put it in his pouch and pulled out another sheet that he had folded in his back pocket. Almost an exact replica of the first paper and began writing again. From scratch. He told of the beautiful scenes and funny jokes he had heard from fellow soldiers. He told of the interesting animals he had encountered and the gorgeous beaches with pure, white sand and clear water.
Well, Mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue.
You shoulda a raised a baby girl.
I should have been a better son.
If you can coddle the infection
They can amputate at once.
You shoulda been.
I could have been a better son.
When he had finished he signed it, "Love always, Scott." Then folded it into thirds and placed it neatly into an envelope just as raggity and the letter itself. He put it back into his back pocket and looked down at his leg. He stared at an enormous gash on the top of his right thigh. It was two to three inches deep, six or seven inches long and an inch wide. He touched it softly and winced. He picked out the fabric of his uniform that I somewhat scabbed into his leg. He didn't think it was a big deal. At least he could still walk...
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fire just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh so, famous.
We'll never let you go.
Suddenly. Shots were fired. Not just one or two but hundreds. No. Thousands. He jerked his head around in alarm just like every other soldier. He heard shouts. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? IT'S TIME TO FIGHT FOR YOUR FUCKING COUNRTY," his sergent yelled and started firing away aimlessly into the woods in the direction the bullets came from. He strapped his rifle on tight over his shoulder and followed lead. He got on one knee and shot from behind a thick tree. In the distance, he could see enemy soldiers rushing them with ugly, brown uniforms and big, black boots that ran up their shins.
She said, "You ain't no son of mine.
For what you done they're gonna find
A place for you and just you mind
Your manners when you go.
And when you go don't return to me, my love."
He remembered what his Mother had told him once before he went to war. His God-fearing Mother. She said in sadness before he left, "Thou shall not kill." He remembered her dark eyes and the emptiness that consumed them. Those words rang in his head over and over but he still fired at the enemy. He never really believed in God anyway. He had never done him any good. Besides. It was his duty. As an American.
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
It's really quite pleasant,
Except for the smell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
After only a few hours worth of fighting, the dead lay sprawled on the icy ground. The sickening smell of rotting corpses filled the air. The stench of death hung over the battlefield like fog. Blood ran deep into the earth. As if it was feeding Mother Nature what she so truly deserved. Crimson blood that smelled of copper stained his skin. Tears welled in his eyes.
Mama, Mama, Mama.
Mama, Mama, Mama, Ma.
His father had died in a war. This was the only way to go. This was the right way to go. But his poor, poor Mother. A woman of 60 plus years. Lived past her husband. Would she have to bury her son as well? But she would gain honor. Honor. Oh, glorious honor.
"And if you would call me your sweetheart,
I'd maybe then sing you a song."
He imagined her crying at a funeral. Not his father's. But his. His pale body lay awkward in a coffin. Stiff and unappealing. His mother fell to the floor in tears. Her dear old heart about to explode from all of the pain and agony. Aunts and cousins comforted her but there is no way to heal a wound that deep. He felt sick to his stomach.
But there's shit that I've done
With this fuck of a gun.
You would cry out your eyes all along.
Even louder shots snatched him from his dream. He turned and fired. Clear in the middle of his opponent's eyes. Brains splattered on the tree behind him. His first kill that he saw up close. He held back vomit.
We're damned after all.
Through fortune and flame we fall.
And if you can stay
Then I'll show you the way
To return to the ashes you call.
"RETREAT!" He turned and saw the army running back. He followed suit. He panted. Though it was cold outside, inside he was burning up. He felt as if his lungs were on fire. His leg. His leg slowed him down and he couldn't keep up with the rest. He fell significantly behind. A shock. Two shocks. One through his right shoulder blade the other through his lower back. He gawked. A noise that normally comes from a wounded animal escaped his throat. He fell to his knees and looked down. Two huge holes were ripped in his chest. He coughed up vomit and blood. A confused looked spread across his face and he fell to his home in hell. His wide, pale, blue eyes frozen in time.
We all carry on.
Though my brothers in arms are gone.
So raise your glass high,
For tomorrow we die,
And return from the ashes you call.