The Vietnam Mary-go-round turned ’em into vicious vets,
Making comfortably numb their own web into the wide world.
The victory they searched for restlessly was nothing but a vial vengeance,
Their heart wounds grew deeper as their wives’ wombs grew bigger.
Hearing voices in vain locked in a shrapnel volt,
Asking the whats, the wheres, the whens,
As the vices became a full-time vulgar job for the venerable soldiers,
Tequila worms, brothel wisdom, infested inner water,
Rushing out the verbal valves while listening to scratched vinyls,
The worn-out wits started sending out an imminent warning,
Behind the wheel of the van going viral off to the land of vipers
We wonder where the fuck is that magic wand?!
The old Volkswagen-driving v-neck wearing hometown vicar used to rant about,
Now that we wander senselessly along wickers making whoop sounds,
Our vague God-forsaken volatile values,
Are nothing but wasps without a sting as the war won over all of our souls…