4 of 147

by Ted Sherman

I see people walking by, staring at me,
At my place under the big oak tree.
For years I've sat in this heart of the city;
I need understanding, not your pity.

Look at this old uniform I wear,
And on my face, the scars I bear.
The empty sleeve's for my missing hand,
That I lost in combat on Vietnamese sand.

Once I wore that uniform with pride,
For my country, I would have died.
I returned from war all full of hope,
And despite my wounds I tried to cope,

But pain and nightmares were too real;
Through the years they'd never heal.
So, when this old man comes into view,
Instead of pity, your word of thanks will do.

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Poetry: Don't pity me

by Ted Sherman

Poetry: Don't pity me

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