A Hill Called Burger Poem by Robert Edgar Burns

Hamburger Hill was just a name.
A terrible place for a political game.
It didn’t mean “nothing’’ to the men in suits
Just how much blood dripped down on our boots.
Survival was always first on our minds,
But none of us thought we would.
We all were “Airborne” as defined
But our odds weren’t all that good.
Eleven times in ten long days,
We attempted that climb in May.
In the steamy A- Shua - Valley,
Where burning flesh was smelled all day.
Go into a deli, if you would like to see
The ambiance that a war can bring.
With no refrigeration in the sloppy mud.
Just putrified colors and smells mixed with blood.
Finally we made it, Right up to the top.
Pieces of buddies, Clung to clothes like slop.
With carbon and smoke from many shells.
It seemed to me much worse than hell.
Hill 937, after ten days lain bare.
And when the battle was ended,
We simply marched away from there.
What really hurts is it wasn’t a war.
Called a police action, now that gets me sore.
Hippies and long hairs and other scum
Called us baby killers, but in truth
They’re the ones,
Who sold their drugs to children at school,
While we paid with our blood
Your right to be you!