ramblings and things
He’s a young old man as he
Shambles down the street
With his thousand yard stare so
His eyes and yours never meet.
Some times he’s sober
Sometimes he’s not
Sometimes it depends on
How much money he’s got.
And he tries to keep smart
Keep a shine on his shoes
And he fights like hell
To keep off the booze.
And his bottomless eyes
Hide the things that he’s seen
In service of his country
In service of his Queen.
Respected in his regiment
He knows not to expect
Consideration for his rank
Or much civilian respect.
Just an old soldier
Ruined by his trade
Wracked in despair by some
Of the calls that he’s made.
And you walk in freedom
Because of him and his kind
While he’s on the scrap heap,
Guilt and despair on his mind.
Trained to obey and
If necessary to kill,
In civilian life
Not a transferable skill.
Spare him a thought
The next time he walks by:
There but for fortune
Could have walked you or I.
A young old man wracked
By what he’s done and seen
In the service of his country,
In the service of his Queen.
In Service - A Poem Of Bitterness