When we danced with death

Each day, we dressed in our finest, secure with armaments.

The dark angel beckoned us to enter the dance floor.

We did not disappoint the collector of souls.

There was a rhythm to the gunfire, explosions, and screams.

Cymbals of helicopter engines and jet fighters thundered.

So, we danced the dance of death.

We twisted, jumped, crouched, dove, and slithered.

The angel came dressed in flowing black silks.

They billowed in the winds as our blood drenched the earth.

And those were the killing fields,

Of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia.

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