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.