Who Knows Why?
How often have I asked myself
why it is that I’m still here?
Why did that damned bullet just
barely graze my ear?
Ol' Moby, who was behind me,
probably thinking about his farm,
gave a grunt and slumped right
over, grabbing out for my arm.
His eyes were wide and puzzled
as he lay there on the ground.
Then, they just sort of went out;
he was gone without a sound.
I found myself down beside him
clutching him in that muddy hole,
though the sniper didn’t fire again;
he was satisfied with one soul.
But in my heart was a dagger
he had buried clear to the hilt;
and for all the days that remain
to me I’ll carry a nagging guilt.
I know full well that it ain't my
fault, but I’ll remember to the end
how that bullet whipped right past
my head and drilled into my friend.
And not a single word can be said
that will take away my pain,
nor all the wishes in the world
bring Moby back again.
So I’m left to grieve and wonder
why it came to be that night
that Moby’s eyes and not mine
dimmed and lost their light.
It wasn’t because I was smarter,
a lot braver, or more bold;
and I sure ain't built no empires
or saved a thousand souls.
The only reason I can think of
why it’s him and not me that’s dead,
is because, at just the right second,
I simply turned my head.
