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								| Ride into Sherwood |  |  |  
					| There were sixteen Hueys in flight line Mine was bird number three
 Flying in attack formation, lookin' mighty fine
 Sallied forth by military decree
 For our ride into Sherwood
 Always friendly Vietcong for to see...
 You don't expect to live forever, do you?
 Charlie's prepared a special welcome for you.
 
 On our ride into green tangled Sherwood
 Ride with nerves jangled tautly tense
 Get control now son, best corral that changing mood
 Said a veteran hovering over jungles darkened dense
 In cacophonous quiet mid noise eerily abounding,
 Ya gotta have all your wits about you, son
 Mid rioting noise of rotors deafening
 Where you can hardly hear yourself think
 Dreaming of the world soon about you crumbling
 Where infantrymen dance on life's brink
 All vestiges of life about them decomposing.
 
 Sherwood's just another fetid jungle
 Where a pungent welcome's spicy hot
 To survive, better not this mission bungle
 Don't wanna leave bones rooted back in Sherwood to rot
 Don't stray too far, or that bullet with your name on it,
 For the life of you... you've bought
 Be ready to look everywhere at once,
 For all goodtime Charlie has wrought
 Look in front, up, down, and behind
 In Charlie's country home,
 Don't let Charlie Cong get your ASSets in a bind.
 
 Best get yourself prepared on your ride into Sherwood
 Remember to look up, for the sniper in the trees
 Remember whatever might be... probably would
 Leave your soul blowing in summer's breeze
 Remember as you step lively, to look down,
 For the booby-trap tamped into the ground
 Or you may never hear another sound
 Keep watch with active eyes for angry men,
 Men trying their best to put you down
 Look left and right, remember... all round
 For men bound and determined your immortal soul
 Deep into Sherwood's fertile ground to pound.
 
 Come knock on Charlie Cong's door...
 Nestled in luxurious verdant jungle velour
 Army door-to-door salesmen canvassing Sherwood
 Boys dangerously armed to the teeth understood,
 Hazards of polling outskirts of this neighborhood
 Supported by Cobra gun ships Gattling mini-guns
 Their blazing rockets razing raining fire
 Artillery shells big as Buicks through air spun
 "Search for effect" rounds meant to inspire
 Passing with high-pitched whining just overhead,
 Awesome sounds like the Cong've never seen
 Than boys psyched up on the ride, more than angry,
 Soldiers tough and ornery, downright lean and mean
 Just killing machines, itchin' for a fight
 Find it this day... we just might!
 
 Till my dying day I'll remember Sherwood's sound
 Still to this sad-sack GI awful profound
 That grinding pitch of rotor blades heard
 The sights... the noise... the smell
 Remember how we jumped and ran from that bird
 Reminiscent of bats from living hell
 Fighting with the brotherhood.
 Still every day, till my dying day,
 Takes me flying back to Sherwood
 Once again caustic on my skin the heat of the fray.
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					| By 
					Gary Jacobson Copyright 2004
 Listed 
					September 25, 2010
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								About 
								Author... 
								In 1966-67, Gary Jacobson served with B Co 
								2nd/7th 1st Air Cavalry in Vietnam as a combat infantryman and is the recipient of the Purple 
								Heart.
 Gary, who resides in Idaho writes stories he 
								hopes are never forgotten, perhaps compelled by 
								a Vietnamese legend that says, "All poets are 
								full of silver threads that rise inside them as 
								the moon grows large." So Gary says he 
								writes because "It is that these silver 
								threads are words poking at me � I must let them 
								out. I must! I write for my brothers who cannot 
								bear to talk of what they've seen and to educate 
								those who haven't the foggiest idea about the 
								effect that the horrors of war have on 
								boys-next-door."
 
					
					Visit Gary Jacobson's site for more information It is illegal to 
					use this poem without the author's permission.~~ Send your comments and/or use permission request to 
				
					Gary Jacobson. ~~
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