swofford

A man fires a rifle for many years,

And he goes to war.

And afterward he turns the rifle in at the armoury,

And he believes he's finished with the rifle.

But no matter what else he might do with his hands,

Love a woman,

Build a house,

Change his son's diaper,

His hands remember the rifle

He will always remain a jarhead

And all the jarheads,

Killing and dying,

They will always be me.