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At The Drop In

 


Four o’clock in the morning

On the street, confused lost 

Demanding the password for

His anti Taliban sentry post.

Just an I.E.D too many,

Guitar strings for trip wire

Laid by the roadside

Where they came under fire.

Guitar strings stretched out

To enlarge the danger zone

So not just triggered by 

The pressure pad alone.

 

Third tour in Afghanistan,

This time as a volunteer, 

Too soon really

To be returning here.

But he’s a volunteer

Willingly coming back,

Never entered his mind

That he just might crack.

Back home in the Depot

In a state of despair

He puffed on wacky baccy as

He walked across the square.

No help for the broken squaddie 

Just a Service No Longer required

Back onto Civvie Street unwanted
Not needed, you're fired.

Gone all the banter 

From supporting mates.

Slung out to the joys

Of the Austerity State. 

 


And now six months late

He's sitting here in tears

Crushed by the flashbacks

From his army years.

Found sleeping on the streets

We brought him here instead
At least at our Drop In

There’s a roof over his head,

With comrades who don't judge.

All of us here can talk the talk

And, in our different ways,

We’ve all walked the walk.

It’s Veteran helping Veteran

So we look after our own: 

One way or another we’ve

All learned to cope on our own.

So brothers and sisters

We are here and we all care

With a brew and a listening ear
To try and help lift your despair.









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