1967, 1968, 1969 Fifth Avenue Peace Parader here. The songs helped end the draft, but so did the realization that those who could not figure out how to evade the draft were not the ideal participnts in technologically sophisticated warfare. I do remember with deep shame that we walkers (we didn't MARCH by any military standard) cheered ourselves for keeping on through a rain shower, to the tune of Handel's Water Music that happened to be playing on someone's portable radio, very high tech for the time. Shame because at the same time draftees and volunteers in 'Nam were crawling through the muck on their bellies. And the shame of the XX exemption: female, so not draftable. Over the last few days I've cobbled together a set of lyrics about war as it is now in the US.

"Jennie's Gone for a Soldier

There's a yellow ribbon painted
On the back of my old van.
And it is for my daughter
Who is serving in Iran
Bringing ammunition convoys
Through a frightened, angry land.
Jennie's gone for a soldier.

Our Jennie's made lieutenant,
Boys and girls in her command
They place their lives and honor
In her strong and dirty hand
Leading ammunition convoys
Over mine-torn bloodied sand.
Jennie's gone for a soldier.

Hush, my grandchild,
Hush, my love.
The hawk of war
And the mourning dove
Tell the earth below
And the sky above
Your Mother's gone for a soldier.

And when she rotates back again
Its never quite the same
She answers to "Sargeant" now,
And not to her born name,
And civilians can't be easy
With the vigilance and flame
War leaves in the eyes of a soldier.

I almost, ALMOST, wish I could
Put flowers on a stone,
Not watch the child I sang asleep
Stand in the dark alone
Flinching from the fireworks
Lit by those who've never know
What rockets can mean to a soldier.

Weep, my grandchild,
Softly, love,
With the hawk of war
And the mourning dove
Tell the earth below
And the sky above
Your Mother's gone for a soldier.

Spoken:

She comes back with her eyes,
With her arms and her legs,
But not the same woman.
Always my daughter,
Always your Mother,
But not the same woman.
Not quite."

Similar things, of course, happen to sons and Fathers.
It isn't that I think that warfare should be closed to women.
It isn't even that I think we can manage without warriors,
not for a while yet, anyway.
But I do think that Obsidian the officer,
and Dove her mother,
and Hunter her son,
are worth a song.

If anyone is inspired to sing it, the tunes are out there.
Just give a mention to Obsidian, Dove, and Hunter,
And SuperKone, who remembers the 1960's.