My love, I know, I know sweet love,
You used alcohol and drugs to stop the war in your head.
It never did stop raging within, as you raged without.  

The Viet Cong didn't get a bullet into you.
But the ****** was cheap and to a combat soldier, sweet.
So, I guess, they killed you slowly, softly.

You had been handsome, gregarious, and brilliant even.
I would help you clean yourself up, put you back together
Only to have you load that "gentle bullet" and fire it into your arms.

Stopping things in your head means eventually becoming brain-dead.
I saw the beautiful, intelligent man that you were become stupid.
Killed by that slow-moving, gentle bullet.

But it was not merciful.
It was not gentle.
Was it, my love?