The Bullet Stops Here

Unlike the buck, you cannot pass the bullet.
If you are a hard rock
At best you can ricochet the bullet off you.
Somewhere it will land
Among your brethren
Albeit with lesser ferocity
But it will still hurt.
If you are not a hard rock
And if you are a naive soul without helmet or kevlar
And only in olive greens
You will take it in like the cold high altitude rations
And paint your olive greens red.
Let it therefore be written on the wall behind my chief's chair
It matters not what day I was born,
For the bullet stops here.