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by Gary Jacobson © April, 2004 
Mine was bird number three Flying in attack formation, lookin’ mighty fine Sallied forth by military decree For our ride into Sherwood Always friendly Vietcong for to see... You don’t expect to live forever, do you? Charlie's prepared a special welcome For you. On our ride into green tangled Sherwood Ride with nerves jangled tautly tense Get control now son, best corral that changing mood Said a veteran hovering over jungles darkened dense In cacophonous quiet mid noise eerily abounding, Ya gotta have all your wits about you, son Mid rioting noise of rotors deafening Where you can hardly hear yourself think Dreaming of the world soon about you crumbling Where infantrymen dance on life’s brink All vestiges of life about them decomposing. 
Sherwood’s just another fetid jungle Where a pungent welcome’s spicy hot To survive, better not this mission bungle Don’t wanna leave bones rooted back in Sherwood to rot Don’t stray too far, or that bullet with your name on it, For the life of you...you’ve bought Be ready to look everywhere at once, For all goodtime Charlie has wrought Look in front, up, down, and behind In Charlie's country home, Don’t let Charlie Cong get your ASSets in a bind. Best get yourself prepared on your ride into Sherwood Remember to look up, for the sniper in the trees Remember whatever might be...probably would Leave your soul blowing in summer's breeze Remember as you step lively, to look down, For the booby-trap tamped into the ground Or you may never hear another sound Keep watch with active eyes for angry men, Men trying their best to put you down Look left and right, remember...all round For men bound and determined your immortal soul Deep into Sherwood's fertile ground to pound. 
Come knock on Charlie Cong’s door... Nestled in luxurious verdant jungle velour Army door-to-door salesmen canvassing Sherwood Boys dangerously armed to the teeth understood, Hazards of polling outskirts of this neighborhood Supported by Cobra gun ships Gatling mini-guns Their blazing rockets razing raining fire Artillery shells big as Buicks through air spun “Search for effect” rounds meant to inspire Passing with high-pitched whining just overhead, Awesome sounds like the Cong’ve never seen Than boys psyched up on the ride, more than angry, Soldiers tough and ornery, downright lean and mean Just killing machines, itchin' for a fight Find it this day...we just might! 
Till my dying day I’ll remember Sherwood's sound Still to this sad-sack GI awful profound That grinding pitch of rotor blades heard The sights...the noise...the smell Remember how we jumped and ran from that bird Reminiscent of bats from living hell Fighting with the brotherhood. Still every day, till my dying day, Takes me flying back to Sherwood Once again caustic on my skin the heat of the fray. each poem with more action graphics and Pictures
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