| Detroit to D.C., night train, capitol, parts east
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| Lone young man takes a seat
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| And by the rhythm of the rails
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| Reading all his mother’s mail
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| From a city boy in a jungle town
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| Postmarked Saigon
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| He’ll go live his mother’s dream
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| Join the slowest parade he’ll ever see
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| Her weight of sorrows carried long and carried far
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| «Take these, Tommy, to the wall»
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| Metro line to the mall site with a tour of Japanese
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| He’s wandering and lost until
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| A vet in worn fatigues
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| Takes him down to where they belong
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| Near a soldier, an ex-marine
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| With a tattooed dagger and eagle trembling
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| He bites his lip beside a widow breaking down
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| She takes her purple heart, makes a fist, strikes the wall
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| All come to live a dream
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| To join the slowest parade they’ll ever see
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| Their weight of sorrows carried long and carried far
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| Taken to the wall
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| It’s 40 paces to the year that he was slain
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| His hand’s slipping down the wall for it’s slick with rain
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| How would life have ever been the same
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| If this wall had carved in it one less name?
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| But for Christ’s sake, he’s been dead over 20 years
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| He leaves the letters asking
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| «who caused my mother’s tears
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| Was it Washington or the Viet Cong?»
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| Slow deliberate steps are involved
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| He takes them away from the black granite wall
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| Toward the other monuments so white and clean
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| O, Potomac, what you’ve seen
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| Abraham had his war too
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| But an honest war
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| Or so it’s taught in school |