Thank You For Your Services
Posted: Wed Sep 16, 2015 2:12 pm
When I was young and in my prime
a lad of seventeen
they sent me off to foreign climes
to serve my country and my King.
A fresh faced kid without a clue
naive to say the least,
lined up with comrades brave and true
to be the cannons feast.
They told us keep yer rifles clean
and keep yer powder dry
and when we charge don´t be afraid
just look em in the eye.
I can still recall that mournful sound
of the whistle blown at dawn,
it was up and over and into hell,
that´s where we went that morn.
All around us bodies fell
as we pushed on through the smoke,
bullet and shell were rained on us
and the stench of cordite made us choke.
A grenade explodes can´t hear a thing
body burning, shrapnel stings,
fell face down in the mud and gore
not wanting to die in this futile war.
So I´m on my feet and charging blind
to the sound of machine gun fire,
body disjointed from the mind
damn the sound of machine gun fire.
Another shell, this time it´s gas
and another fifty fall,
so far away from the marching bands
where we answered to the call.
Coughing and spewing from the cloud
that´s burning my insides,
lying in mud that is stained with blood
and there is no place to hide.
The screams and pleas from fallen men
being riddled with enemy fire,
slowly fade and drift away
from this field, this burning pyre.
I see the flash from the enemy’s gun
and I know it must be stopped,
I throw a grenade as I scale the mound
and in their trench I watched it drop.
The explosion loud lit up the sky
and showered all with dirt and stone,
the firing ceased the smoke it cleared
and I found myself alone.
This haunting place, this field of death,
this place that no young man should be,
amongst the bodies of his friends
this sight will always stay with me.
How I survived I´ll never know
but I do know this for sure,
the way to peace I'm telling you
is not through some bloody war.
Now in my armchair next the fire
with haunting memories by the score
and a (thank you for your services)
worthless medal in the drawer.
a lad of seventeen
they sent me off to foreign climes
to serve my country and my King.
A fresh faced kid without a clue
naive to say the least,
lined up with comrades brave and true
to be the cannons feast.
They told us keep yer rifles clean
and keep yer powder dry
and when we charge don´t be afraid
just look em in the eye.
I can still recall that mournful sound
of the whistle blown at dawn,
it was up and over and into hell,
that´s where we went that morn.
All around us bodies fell
as we pushed on through the smoke,
bullet and shell were rained on us
and the stench of cordite made us choke.
A grenade explodes can´t hear a thing
body burning, shrapnel stings,
fell face down in the mud and gore
not wanting to die in this futile war.
So I´m on my feet and charging blind
to the sound of machine gun fire,
body disjointed from the mind
damn the sound of machine gun fire.
Another shell, this time it´s gas
and another fifty fall,
so far away from the marching bands
where we answered to the call.
Coughing and spewing from the cloud
that´s burning my insides,
lying in mud that is stained with blood
and there is no place to hide.
The screams and pleas from fallen men
being riddled with enemy fire,
slowly fade and drift away
from this field, this burning pyre.
I see the flash from the enemy’s gun
and I know it must be stopped,
I throw a grenade as I scale the mound
and in their trench I watched it drop.
The explosion loud lit up the sky
and showered all with dirt and stone,
the firing ceased the smoke it cleared
and I found myself alone.
This haunting place, this field of death,
this place that no young man should be,
amongst the bodies of his friends
this sight will always stay with me.
How I survived I´ll never know
but I do know this for sure,
the way to peace I'm telling you
is not through some bloody war.
Now in my armchair next the fire
with haunting memories by the score
and a (thank you for your services)
worthless medal in the drawer.