Fallujah is a soldier's hell.
Can't be described no other way.
Your task: to clear another block.
Your hope: survive yet one more day.

A cold sweat trickles from my pores
'cause terror lurks behind closed doors.

There's only four of us Marines,
all that's left of our platoon.
Delaney's point, I've got his back.
Sherrod comes next and then Calhoun.

We're loaded down with gear and arms:
an M-4 rifle, extra clips,
green body armor, ammo vest,
grenades in pockets on our hips.

A cold sweat trickles from my pores
'cause terror lurks behind closed doors.

We scan each building front and rear,
aware we have exposed our flanks.
A sniper's out there who we fear
since he alone did halve our ranks.

Civilians cringe when we appear.
I'll see them, think, "Who can we trust?"
Insurgents hide within these homes,
so we burst in because we must.

What will we find? Who will be killed?
Fanatics use small kids as shields,
while fathers opt to lie then die
in their own homes now battlefields.

When terror lurks behind each door,
there's sudden death, hot rage, much gore.