I'm sittin' here on this front-porch swing. My chest vibrates; my ears ring, Wonderin' what the hell's the matter with me. Inside o' my head it's like world war three, Not just a little hazy. I think I'm going crazy. Others call me lazy, Loser, wimp, coward. I heard it all.
I lost my job, lost my wife, Cut my wrist with a pocket knife. I drive down the road to Walter Reed, Thinkin' ev'ry mailbox I see is an IED. They say: "You've got post-traumatic stress disorder." They called it a hidden injury. Not to me it ain't.
When the president comes in, he says: "Son, Change your attitude; get up off your buns. You gotta shake it off, walk through it, Get up on your feet, put your mind to it." So what he's saying is: it's mind over matter, But what he's communicating is: your mind doesn't matter to me.
Mister president, with all due respect, Let's talk disorders if I can talk direct. I've been readin' about afflictions of mind. I'll tell you about one of a different kind. It's indicated by irrational thinking, confused language, And an inability to empathize. It's called presidential spongiform encephalopathy, Also known as mad president's disease.
So he cocked his head, kind o' confused, A little baffled, a bit bemused, Then he held my hand to prove me wrong, Make me feel better before he moved along. "Son, you misunderestimate me. I know what you're going through, And I'm doing everything within my power to leave behind a more peaceful future." What the hell does that mean?
So he shook my hand; I shook my head, Leaving angry words unsaid. A hidden injury! Fancy that! I got a hidden outrage under my hat. See, what I want to know is: with one in four of us coming home with hidden injuries, What's gonna happen when our injuries run out o' places to hide?