I don't know what I'm fighting for, but I'm fighting just the same.
And the hardest fight I'm fighting now is just fighting to stay sane.
Friends, they try to help me not to see the things that I see
But the eyes I brought back with me can't tell friend from enemy.
And every night, I feel just like I'm back in Viet Nam. . . .

There's a bar down at the corner where I've been drinking now for years.
Each night I build perimeters out of cigarettes and beer.
I don't start conversations, cause the words are booby trapped.
I'm just a stranger in a fire zone where I don't have a map.
But I try to stay tight cause it helps me fight going back to Viet Nam. . . .

There's a quiet place on the outskirts that ain't part of Viet Nam.
Only marble stands in regiments in the silence of the land.
People come and visit me with their questions and their pain,
But I don't have to answer. There's no need to explain
That here at night, I never fight going back in Viet Nam. . . .

Once there was a young man, he went fighting far from home.
And when the war was over, he kept fighting it alone.