Odd chums one finds in those foreign climes
Where the sun beats down all day.
And the weirdest bunch with whom I've lunched
Are the boys of the Green Beret.
Private Dan was a boy not a man
When he left the states for the war;
Then he caught a shell in the seat of his pants
And he aint a boy anymore!
Strange things are at hand in those far off lands
Where pyjamas are daily garb,
But the damnedest event that hell ever sent
Was the birth of the Boondock Bard.
Old Sergeant Bull was a fightin' fool
And a French-capped Special Force
He was tall and slim and his mouth was grim
And his eyes were mean, of course.
I can see him now, and I know, somehow,
He's the very best of men
As he sits on his ass on his mat of grass,
And cocks his fountain pen.
And I'll never forget that look of regret
And of mournfully hurt surprise
When the Major would swear that he'd no right to wear
Midst his ribbons, his pulitzer prize.
Oh save us, Lord, from our enemy's sword
And the weapon that's mightier yet
That tool of pain with the blue-black stain:
The pen of the Green Ber-ett.
And save our sons from the bombs and guns,
But most of all we pray
Don't let 'em choose to make the news
As the boys of the Green Beret!