I was there in nineteen-eighty when my little boy was born
And I held his momma's hand and told her "Breathe."
And she labored and she strained, and finally brought forth
The most perfect sight I'd ever hoped to see.
I was there when first she nursed him, and I held him in my arms
So beautiful, so fragile, and so small.
And I swore to him "Your Dad will always be there for you, son;
If ever you should need him, you just call."
I took my turn at walking up and down at two a.m.,
And I washed the puréed carrots from his hair.
And I changed his little diapers, and he pee'd upon my shirt;
For a million little moments, I was there.
A million little moments, from prosaic to sublime,
Like the first time that he threw up on his Dad,
Or the bunch of wild flowers that he gathered for his Mom,
Or the times he said "I'm sorry, that was bad."
I remember nights of nighmares, when he crept into our bed,
And nights we sat up, watching over him
As he tossed and turned in fevers, and the nights a dollar coin
Replaced a tooth that fell out of his grin.
How to tell of all the moments of a child growing up?
If you haven't been a parent, you can't know
What it's like to hear your baby as he utters his first word,
Or watch him at the beach, or in the snow.
I helped him learn to ride a bike, and to do the dishes, too,
And I helped him learn to cook a tasty meal,
And to do his share of chores around the house and in the yard,
And why he should be honest, and not steal.
The first day that he went to school, I held his little hand
And he tugged us on, excitement in his eyes.
And I was there that evening, waiting, when my little boy came home
And breathlessly he told us what he'd tried.
I was there the day he came home with his license in his hand
And I handed him the keys, and told him "Son,
I'm proud of you, I trust you," and I said "Don't let me down."
And, you know, he never did; not even once.
I was there the night he called and said "I've had too much to drink
And I don't believe it's safe for me to drive."
And we pulled on clothes and picked him up, for what's a little sleep
Compared with getting your son home alive?
I was there, and watched him proudly, as he put on cap and gown,
And I thought of all that brought him to that day;
Of study and report cards and of papers and of dates,
Of football games and art shows and of plays.
I was there for his first heartbreak, and his silent racking sobs
Brought matching tears to stream down Daddy's face.
And I was there in nineteen-ninety-eight when he stood proud and tall
And said "Mom, Dad, this is my fiancée."
I was there the day he put the ring upon Clarisse's hand,
And he looked her in the eye and said "I do."
Then he lifted up her veil and he kissed her on the lips.
His mother wept, and I was crying too.
One day in nineteen-ninety-nine, he told his Mom and me
"I'm enlisting in the Army in a week.
I feel a need to serve the land that's given me so much."
And a proud and frightened Dad could hardly speak.
"With the baby on the way," he said, "Clarisse and I agree
I can go to school and serve my country too.
In the Army I'll get skills with which to build a good career:
I'm trying to be as good a Dad as you."
I'm proud he died to save civilian bystanders from harm,
But I broke a tooth by gritting it in hate
Of the worthless scum who sent my son to die for Bush's lies;
Who hijacked my beloved ship of state.
Did he call out for his Daddy there, with shrapnel in his gut
As he bled to death in Baghdad city dust?
I swore I'd always be there, that my son had just to call;
Did he die there, thinking I'd betrayed his trust?
There's nothing in the world that can restore my son to me;
And flags and medals are no substitute.
And "murderer" and "treason" are not words too strong for Bush
Who doesn't care for justice or for truth:
Who feared what might befall then, if the people's will was known
In Florida's election, Y2K,
And conspired to acquire then, by foul means or fair
The White House that he occupies today.
Who set the pattern then, without a thought for wrong or right
Of secrecy and lies and of contempt
For the people of this country, and of callous disregard
For his betters ... who off to death he sent.
Those fine young men and women, whose draped coffins, row on row,
He's worked so hard to hide away from sight;
But the parents can't forget the formal letters they've received,
Or their children, maimed and weeping in the night.
If there was justice in this world, then the newspapers would tell
How "Treason" was the charge for Bush et. al..
And the swift, fair trial that followed would a "Guilty" verdict bring,
And each one through a gallows-hatch would fall.
But justice is a sometime thing, and often is delayed,
And oftener than that, it is denied.
So they will get their millions and their power and their fame,
And for those things my little boy has died.
But maybe, on some future day, the truth will be brought out
Of how these poor apologies for men
Corrupted, lied, and schemed; spent priceless lives for cash,
And history will bring a verdict. Then
Will his and all his cronies' — who suborned democracy —
Corruption and venality lay bare.
And history will have for them the loathing they deserve,
And I pray "Oh, please, oh please let me be there."