Its Christmas day in '43
my notepad lies in front of me
sadness fills my heart today
I write to dad, so far away
I know he feels my pain so far
across the miles, his whiskey jar
is full and raised up to his lip
he whispers son!, and takes a sip
what can I write to ease his worry
perhaps, grounded, Christmas flurry
or, hey pop!, I am doing well
there really is no news to tell
been watching movies, playing ball
not been flying much at all
I ferry guys from here to France
back by sunset, evenings, dance
its better that he doesn't know
of Berlin, Munich, where I go
to add my load to fire below
feel the updraft, watch the glow
as people run and cry in pain
incinerate in fiery rain
and shake their fist toward the sky
mourn their dead and wonder why
were they to blame for Hitler's sin
did they march strong in rally din
and scream sieg hiel in fervent glory
why then, should they, be burnt in fury
I never see the solemn grief
I drop my tons, bring no relief
women, children, old men too
suffer death at what I do
then turn my plane and head for base
break out my, official face
do my job as I've been taught
more death today, it stands for naught
somebody's Father, Mother, son
blown limb from limb, it matters none
a daughter maybe, pregnant be
kill both of them, damn nazi!
and so I wonder what to say
To Mom and Pop so far away
to tell the truth, as I was raised
or paint a picture, slightly glazed
No!, better that they think I'm fine
I'll write and speak of Christmas wine
and hope they never learn the story
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