What Vietnam Did to My Mouth 
(and Other Atrocities) ~Dusty

Listen up Dad, sorry 'bout that Mom, but
your dotted swiss pinafore daughter is gone.
Sold too cheap to Uncle Sam,
traded to a pimp in a suburb of Saigon--
worked my body, fucked my mind
'till governments, tired of their little gook game,
tossed back home a badass bitch vet.

You'll have to welcome a stranger back home
because all my lacy pink girl words are done.
My words no longer tiptoe, meek on your ear;
they refuse to sit prim in your parlor
or politely wait their turn.
My words won't pour your afternoon tea;
they won't crochet doilies,
or offer you a scone.
My words don't plant verbena
and they don't sip sherry.
They don't wear hats on Sunday and they don't
play with dolls.

My now words are vet words and they don't mess around:
vet words are saddled-up words,
can-do words that get it done now.
Vet words don't give a rusty rat's ass;
they march right up and get in your face.
Vet words scream and vet words bleed;
vet words keep secrets like "brother" and "love."
Vet words kick ass and vet words take names.
Easy to spell but hard to say,
vet words were learned at
some other mother's knee.
Vet words are holy and vet words are plain.
They have seen it all and they paint what they see.
Vet words are truth with a capital T.