| They called him Skeet, his name was Bill
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| Corporal William Howard Campbell
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| They never knew and never will
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| He did his time with the 101
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| They took a simple country boy
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| And taught him how to use a gun
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| After four long years in service
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| Two tours in Vietnam
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| The country that he served so well
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| Doesn’t seem to give a damn
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| That he’s a homeless man
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| He has a son, lives in L. A
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| He hasn’t spoke to him in twenty years
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| He just don’t know what to say
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| He had a loving wife, she was his right hand
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| Till the nightmares and the memories
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| Became more that she could stand
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| Now he has everything he owns
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| In a worn-out shopping cart
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| He’s never begged for anything
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| He just doesn’t have the heart
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| He’s just a homeless man
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| Now in this land of plenty
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| Where so many have it all
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| He sleeps in an alley half a block from city hall
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| They found him there one cold November night
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| Though he’d won so many battles
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| This time he’d lost the fight
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| No one seemed to care that he was gone
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| They laid him in a pauper’s grave
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| With a tiny little stone
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| As a young man and his mother
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| Sat alone and cried
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| Holding the Silver Star medallion
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| Someone found there by his side
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| He was a homeless man
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| He was just a homeless man |