This is the seventh page of my poems.  
Please note this material is copywrited.  
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Do not change the content.
Some material is graphic in content and
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they have been edited.
  Thank you.
  Harry H. Smith

At first it was the thing to do,
	our patriotic chore;
But with all the screwings we got,
	I felt more like a w****.

They sent us overseas,
	to fight someone else's war;
Then we returned to find,
	they needed us no more.

They added insult to injury,
	rubbed salt in our wounds;
They give the slant-eyed b******S,
	a house, a job --- the moon!

Now there's nothing we can do,
	you say we shouldn't fight it;
Well, I may have to eat shit,
	But I sure as hell don't have to like it!

It seems so damn ironic,
We're a nation of bleeding hearts,
So eager to give a hand to others
And forget the veteran's part.

Money and food sent overseas,
How easy it seems to be;
With little or nil for those who fought
To keep this country free.

So quick to take in refugees,
Give 'em a job and a house to own;
Then turn right around and cut
Veteran's benefits to the bone.

It seems so damn stupid,
To keep making the same mistakes;
For Veterans to give and give and give,
While the government takes
	            and takes 
	                and takes.

Sometimes I laugh, 
Sometimes I cry;
More than once or twice,
I just wanted to die.

Sometimes I toss,
Sometimes I turn;
But there is always fuel,
For this anger to burn.

Sometimes I care,
Sometimes I don't;
One thing's for certain,
Forget it, I won't.

Sometimes it's dark,
Sometimes it's light;
With no chance of better,
'Till the wrong is right.