Between the
security of childhood
and responsibilities of adulthood
comes the fascinating group of humans
called Marines.
They come in all sizes an
d shapes and uniforms,
and can usually be found on ships,
in bunkers,
embassy duty,
in love, in bars, in jail, or in debt.
Towns tolerate them,
and the government pays them.
A Marine is a brave man
with a tattooed arm,
deadly with a deck of cards,
an occasional drinker,
a defender of our country
with a playboy pin -up in his pocket.
A marine has the slyness of a fox,
the energy of a bull,
and the appetite of a bowery bum.
He dislikes answering questions or letters,
wearing a uniform,
the superior officers, and revelry.
No one else can cram into his pockets
a church key,
a crushed pack of camels,
a set of chopsticks,
a cigarette lighter, a cone,
an autographed picture of his girl,
and a few cents from last week's pay.
Still, he wears his uniform
in a military manner
with cut -off sleeves
and a snack from barbed wire,
always keeping on the alert
and observing every girl with
insight or hearing.
A Marine likes to spend his money
on beer, whiskey, cards, and women,
the rest he spends foolishly.
If he's not requesting special liberty,
he's demanding leave.
Upon denial of these things,
he will request a transfer.
Only a marine can sit in
a muddy foxhole
with a can of ham and lima
beans in his hand,
a soggy pack of C -rad cigarettes
in his pocket,
rain pouring down,
and still complain that he's not getting
enough benefits.
A marine is a magical creature.
You can take him off your mailing list,
but not out of your heart.
You can lock him out of your house,
but not out of your mind.
You might as well give up.
He's your love away from home.
A good -for -nothin' housewrecker.
But all your heartaches are smoothed out
when he wanders home
and looks at you
with tired, bloodshot eyes
and says to you, Hi, Mom.
I love you.