Gunny

_{(to the tune of Black Velvet Band)}

His hair hung down to his shoulders,

His shirt was a tattered old rag.

Faded chevrons adorned both his worn, torn sleeves,

And his hands clutched a brown paper bag.

Gunny was the name we all called him,

A veteran, ‘though he never did brag.

He’d wander the streets of the neighborhood,

Snatching sips from his brown paper bag.

His only true friend was old Jarhead,

A mongrel with no leash or tag.

When he died, he left Gunny alone again,

Alone with his brown paper bag.

We never saw Gunny get angry,

He was never a scold or a nag.

When we passed him by, he would nod a sad smile,

And sip from his brown paper bag.

In the summers we often would see him,

With the kit-bag that held all his swag,

On a park bench alone in the warm sunshine,

Holding tight to his brown paper bag.

Then last winter with snowstorms a-swirling,

And temperatures starting to sag,

Gunny died forlorn in the homeless camp.

He’d drunk his last brown paper bag.

When they opened his kit, they discovered

A folded American flag,

And a Congressional Medal of Honor,

Sealed tight in a brown paper bag.

• 

• 

When they tried to find Gunny’s family,

Their best efforts all hit a snag.

But they buried him with full honors,

Wearing his Medal from that brown paper bag.

Gunny rests now with his fallen comrades

‘Neath a cross in a field filled with flags.

UNKNOWN BUT TO GOD and those warriors—

Free at last from those brown paper bags.

Semper Fi, Gunny!

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2021}