WHY I MARCH Why do you still March, old man, with medals on your chest?... Why do you still grieve, old man, for those friends you laid to rest? Why do your eyes gleam old man, when you hear those bugles blow? Tell me why you cry old man, for those days so long ago. I’ll tell you why I march, young man, with medals on my chest, I grieve for all those friends, young man, the ones I laid to rest. Through misty folds of gossamer silk, I think of distant times, When boys of tender age, young man, marched forth to distant climes. So young they were, with blossom cheeks; their eyes shone bright and clear, Scant knowledge of this sinful world, no thought of hate or fear, Their laughter rang through strange bare rooms, hardships, they were soon to know. But they all knew that beyond their shores, was a deadly, evil foe. They left behind their boring life; they had nothing much to give. So they laid their lives upon the line, so you, young man, could live. With bayonet, gun and blossom cheeks, the innocence of their youth, They stood alone with fearsome pride, and learned the awful truth. The truth they learned; they might well die, within the foe’s gun-sights, The guns soon crashed, shells tore their flesh, the Stukas dived from heights. I smelled their blood, and watched them die; the enemy stole their breath. And as those warrior boys passed by, they smiled in obscene death. We buried them in a blanket shroud, their young flesh scorched and blackened. A communal grave we newly gouged in the blood-stained gorse and bracken. Gone were their apple-blossom cheeks, black from burning oil. They’d stood their ground and fought the foe, his evil plans they foiled. So when I march, I march young man, to tell you of the days When boys were men and life was good and we fought to keep our ways. Were it not for us – and those who fell - you would not be here today Or, if you were, you would be slaves for the foe would be here to stay.
Posted on: Sat, 09 Nov 2013 20:44:30 +0000
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