(Dedicated to my number one son)

Death came down on silvery wings,

And spread his gore upon the land.

The vapor descended in trails of white,

And killed the bushes and trees with blight.

Man looked up when he should have laid,

Upon his face, and prayed and prayed.

My son was touched with this whispering death,

His skin rots off and nails turn black,

Yet our government will give no slack.

They hem and haw and try to say,

This is not covered by our own way.

This man is giving his life away,

For GOD and country this very day.

Yet should he suffer in this agonizing way,

As his body rots while he is alive?

God did not will this horrible death,

The politicians did take his neth.

They should have put him upon the cross,

And he would have suffered no greater loss.

M/SGT Richard T. Rhoads, Sr., (RET) (C)1990

This poem was sent to me by Richard (Dusty) Rhoads, Jr.

In Loving Memory of Richard T. Rhoads, Sr.

Dusty wrote:

Richard Rhoads, Sr. retired from the USMC in 1968, and sadly passed away the 30th of December, 1998 while we were visiting for the holidays. He wrote this poem for me dealing with the "skin condition" as the VA calls it. He also spent two years in VietNam, plus time in China and Korea--serving this great nation of ours.