And it came to pass on the first day of July nThe last man home from Vietnam was going to arrive nThe ship came in so silently, its bow a ghostly white nAnd when they looked upon the decks, there was not a man insidennThen the sea began to roll and from the ship a moaning nA line of broken children, all from the ship a-coming nThe light of death was in their eyes nThe broken children of Vietnam nOn the first day of JulynnLike a war beyond control, to Washington at dawn nA line of ghostly children upon the White House lawn nGrown men did turn away, not to see it anymore nTo see the burning child running to the White House door nNo one found a place to hide nThe burning children of Vietnam nOn the second of JulynnAll across America a line ten miles long nThe dead children all coming home nFrom the land of Vietnam nTo men who got too far away nFrom what was done in their name nSomeday must all have to pay nWho never saw a child die nThe dead children are coming home nFour days in JulynnOn every door and window across this sad gray land nA mark that would never go away of a thousand thousand hands nA voice like voices in a dream nA voice like somebody else's scream nOr not somebody else's scream nA voice within a fire nThe burning children of Vietnam nOn the third day of JulynnThen they came upon the sea, it did open up before them nA line of children all with wounds, upon the ocean walking nThen the sky began to rain nAnd beat the land with tears of rage nAnd every year upon that day if a hundred years go by nIt rains upon America nOn the fourth day of July