So rest young warrior In yon ditch or field And know that we are grateful For the might that you did wield. Rest easy in your graves For it's not you who sinned And we will always honour you Though you are but dust in the wind. The suited table talkers who fail Send our young to die But don't include their own children When they give war a try. It's the unemployed and poor who sign up for wars and adversity While the rich kids catch a jet To a foreign job or university. So many generous immature souls Come forward when the Bell is rung When the politician's remedies fail They pass the bile filled cup - To the young.
Tag: War
Robin Goodfellow A Man We Called Mann
What to say about you Mann? After nigh on 15 years We shared a lot you and I A few pubs, and many beers. You've gone now Mann You went without a fuss You "popped your clogs" so quietly And did not inconvenience us. I recall you could chat with anyone And find interest in what they said Put your views, hear out theirs, and Prejudice seemed never to enter your head. No doubt your time on the guns bred tolerance But the cost was high at El-Alamein Most of your friends died there And your hearing was never the same. War shocked and damaged a little You returned to the land of your Kin Rejoined the industrial giant you knew And climbed the ladder within. Marriage, children, dogs and humdrum Followed in family mode Early release from the shafts of work Meant more time for the road. And when your sight went finally The car and caravan had to go You were close to tears then But fought not to let them show. I was your son-in-law and I Miss you just about each day I miss your willingness to involve yourself And be ready with your say. Mann, when next you sit at God's right hand Sharing a pint or two You can get him to put the world to rights As you and I used to do.
Robin would have been 100 years old on 1st November 2020
All those Sons and Daughters
Another November 11th The 76th I have seen Men and women of our forces Parade together with the Queen. Here we remember the fallen Those who will never age People with just one life to live And lost it on the world war stage. It's all well done as usual British ceremony, pomp and grace But I always wonder who it is decides on war in the first place? Who takes this grave decision A singleton, quorum or committee? To defend our realm and order the death of bodies, brains and beauty. It has to be - It must be so To ensure we all stay free But whoever it is starts our fights I am glad that it's not me.
Why Worry
We worry far too often
About climate change and such
About family, work, war and cash
We worry far too much.
Is it why we are put here
And is there a special plan
For us to tend the garden
For some coming omnipotent man?
There has to be a purpose
In our daily thrash around
Why we till and turn the same patch
of already seeded ground.
If only we could foster
The sense to turn and play
And fight the over-riding drive
to meet our troubles halfway.
16th February 2014
Twin Towers
There are holes in Manhattan
where two Towers stood.
Symbols of rich greatness which
became rubble mixed with blood.
The zealots in the crashing planes
thought Paradise was theirs,
and death for them was noble
if they upset world affairs.
Warriors of an Eastern religion,
base, bigoted and defiant;
such fools were they to prod
earth's largest sleeping giant.
Three thousand people gone,
and thousands more are blighted,
as they live on their shattered lives
and the fuse to war is lighted.
As I See Things 