The poem
Because back home in Tennessee I was a champeen shot, They made a sniper outa me An' ninety krouts I got: I wish to Christ I'd not!
Athinkin' o' them blasted lives It's kindo' blue I be; Them lads no doubt had kids an' wives An' happy home like me: Them stiffs I still can see.
Aye, ninety men or more my hand Has hustled down to hell; They've loaded me with medals and They tell me I done well: A hero for a spell.
But Heaven help me to forget Them fellow men I've slain, The bubbling flow of blood I've let . . . I'll never kill again: To swat flies gives me pain.
Just let me dream when we will see And end of soldierin'; When flags of famous victory Will be amoulderin': An' lethal steel an' battle blast Be nightmares of the past.