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Coming to Vietnam
You look down at the blood on your hands,
the mud on your shoes,
you see an ant trying to wriggle out of the mud.
Then you go back a second,
you remember coming to this wasteland,
this MUD on your shoes,
you remember the dew from the long tall grass,
settle on the sides of your pants.
You look up at the sun,
just as big and hot as the rest of this horrid place.
You look down at the blood on your hands,
the mud on your shoes.
And you see the mud on the shoes of an ant,
trying to wriggle out of the mud.
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