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Viet Nam Generation Journal & Newsletter

V3, N3 (November 1991)

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Poetry by Dennis Fritzinger

Charlie Don't Surf







 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
      Charlie Don't Surf
 
 when i went over to vietnam
 after i got in that war-torn land
 i met up with a guy named murf;
 first thing he told me, is "charlie don't surf."
 
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
      Charlie Don't Surf
 
 i was crawling on my belly thru the mud one day
 after that morning it looked like play
 there was shrapnel everywhere but me
 i looked up and what did i see?
 
 a funny little guy not 5-foot-2
 a thin white beard and a big stick too
 he said, "i'm uncle ho and i've come to see
 if you yank surfers are as good as me."
 
 he gestured left, and underneath a tree
 was a brand-new surfboard, just right for me
 i grabbed it up and he led the way
 to what appeared to be the local bay
 
 now many's the eye that may deceive
 and a person's word may be hard to believe
 but 30 foot waves came crashing in
 and i tell ya, they made one helluva din
 
 he said, "you chicken?" and rushed on out
 i followed him quick, for i had no doubt
 for a california man, in his natural pride,
 could show uncle ho one helluva ride
 
 ho took off first; he was pretty quick
 he did some things that were awful slick
 like walking the nose and hanging ten
 then he came back and did them again
 
 but i said nothing, and soon he did see
 you can't beat a californian so easily
 i was so hyped up when i did my show
 i coulda sold ice to an eskimo

 i did everything that'd ever been seen
 till ho he was looking awful green
 but he doubled his efforts, and soon i saw
 that he was well-seasoned, he was not raw
 
 he turned his head with a terrible smile
 and showed me my tricks, hanoi style
 he did at least one, to show he was boss,
 while wolfing down rice with the local fish sauce
 
 but i smiled too, i would not run
 and did more tricks in the setting sun
 and when at last the sun sank low
 i could see we were in for one helluva blow
 
 the storm came quickly, rain and wind
 and uncle ho signaled that we should end
 we'll take up tomorrow said he
 for you're pretty good for a yank, i see
 
 i shook my head and i signaled no
 and i rode right out in the teeth of the blow
 and uncle ho followed, for he had pride
 but this time luck was not on his side
 
 for there, in the middle of the final set
 came a fifty-foot wave, the biggest yet
 ho wiped out in the crash and foam,
 and me, i just rode the big wave home
 
 so all you beach boys, i'll tell you free
 a tip a short-timer once gave to me
 if there's one thing we know on this God's Green Earth
 it's Charlie Don't Surf
 
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
 charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
      Charlie Don't Surf

Dennis Fritzinger is editor of LZ Friendly. This poem previously appeared in The Zephyr, the California State VVA newspaper.

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