Art - vocals, guitars, bass; Tom Smallcomb - drums; The McCrindle Building Singers - chorus
Lyrics
I still see Tommy with her picture in his hand
Robyn's hair was the color of sand
we came together green and afraid
to this desert land
One white-hot day, in a hum-vee full of dust
the ambush came like insane bloodlust
They hate our faces, the hate our names
They hate our grand war games
But we had sweethearts, or we had wives
some kids we hardly knew . . .
Now they're existing in another world
that we can write home to
They don't need more bad news, anyhow
No need to testify, or scream and shout
Two Guardsmen in, one Guardsman out . . .
It's nothing to write home about
Tommy died in the air-vac, they said
with vacant eyes, and a hole in his head
Makes me glad I never mentioned him
to the folks back home
No need to tell my dad that one more died
No need to blood-splatter his right wing pride
He needs to sing that Spiro Agnew song --
my country, right or wrong
But did he see the things that I have seen
If I asked him, he wouldn't say
He'd lift his chin toward that jungle land
and gaze so far away
He don't need more bad news, anyhow
No need to testify or scream and shout
Two strangers in -- one buddy out
It's nothing to write home about . . .
Some days there's people moving in these streets
as if they couldn't feel the maddening beat
Of all the centuries that brought us here
to Heaven's last defeat
But one reminder came at half-past three
a young girl shot to death for all to see
A sniper's bullet took her face away --
a bullet meant for me
Do they have sweethearts, do they have wives
Do they ever wonder who
Really wants the gift of martyrdom
to run their loved ones through
I guess they all pray the same, anyhow
No need to testify, or scream and shout
One trigger pulled, one daughter out
It's nothing to write home about
Well we had sweethearts, and we had lives --
so rich, we never knew
But can they ever really be the same?
I'll ask my dad that, too
But he don't need no questions, not just now
Won't make him testify, or scream and shout
One rookie in, one Angel out . . .
It's nothing to write home about
One new kid in, one Angel out . . .
It's nothing to write home about