That was what they called her,
But her name was Phan Thị Kim Phúc,
It spoke louder than the lacerated burn marks upon her back,
The bird plane dropped an egg of fire
and left the stink of the slaughterhouse,
of dead cattle and the sweat of fear leaked through the air
on that dread June day.
She knew the crunch of boots snapping bones
in the wild jungle yard,
Boots that stamped your soul with death.
The barbed wire rose high into the blue sky,
It curled around the camp
in a grip tighter than a vice,
Her home torched to the ground,
Her school scraped off the ground,
In the summer of ’72 they tore her soul in two.