He stood at the threshold of his house
Staring, with his great dark bulging orbs
He quiet as tiny chapel mouse
Words that upon his wall they’d daubed.
Then pensively he turned with a sigh
To ruminate upon his quiet life
For they had never then see him cry
Not even when losing his dear wife.
He passed a window of his flat
Broken by massive lump of wood
Tripping over a scampering rat
He realised life was just no good.
On wall where tarnished medals hang
Framed letters of praise from Royal Queen
And of his heroism, letters sang
For a great soldier he had been.
The house was very cold, the fire dead
There was no money now left to spend
On the floor were many bills unread
The brave mans life had come to an end.
The gang outside were now throwing stones
One big jagged piece bounced off his head
He then fell and broke his thin neck bones
And a minute later he was dead.
This warrior, who died alone and poor
On a monument, no name inscribed
As of the heroes all lost at war
And yet for this death, no one was tried.