My uncle fought for Iraq. 
It was a petty war, a pointless war. 
Fighting against the Iranians was what laid in store 
For a man who was but twenty-four. 
Wanting to part ways, but drafted anyways, 
Was what set his soul and days ablaze. 
Fought battles for the pride of the nation, or so he was told. 
But his enemies' hearts, they indeed turned cold. 
From head to toe, there was nothing to show 
But paraplegic limbs and torture in tow. 
Run, my uncle wished.
And to forget, he sought.
But stayed his ground in fear of being shot. 
My uncle. 
What an amazement he survived! 
But what does it matter for? 
He's not an American veteran. 
Whether he lived or died 
Was never a concern to those deprived.