When I was little, Puff the Magic Dragon
Was a storybook character, living in the painted worlds
Of my little kid books
Then I grew into storybooks with
Thick bindings and heavy paper
And Puff the Magic Dragon
Could drench a football field in lead
In a few seconds.
His name was Puff because he shot tracers -
Red smoke that drifted through jungle nights
Boys kneeling in trenches
Baptized by arc raids and M-16 fire reaching
For something to admire,
Desperate for some beauty
Or so I imagine, since I can never
Never
Really understand the days when Puff
Flew jungle missions to rescue boys
With souls torn out
And the faces of old, old men