The Boys Are Coming Home

We don't want your sympathy, suffering with PTD,
we would like our limbs back which we gave up for the country,
they didn't tell us about explosions, only that we may have to go on some excursions.

They didn't tell us that we may not be able to make love any more,
I curse the sky when I'm on the floor,
I think of my friends blown apart,
they said that you could always make a fresh start.

They sat at their fancy desks planning strategic,
couldn't be bothered that I may be a quadriplegic,
one of the spoils of war,
God, was I spoiled - you sonofabitches.

Time for my medication - the pain never seems to go away,
why don't they just let the bastards have their land,
instead of burying us in their stupid sand?