On parade, ram rod straight, proud moms and dads look on,
The last three months have done him good, but soon he will be gone.
Off to fight in foreign lands in a war he doesn’t understand,
To defend an area he doesn’t know, with rifle gripped in hand.

THERE STANDS A SOLDIER.

Lining up for transport, nerves are kicking in,
He sees his mates, all professionals now, all going out to win.
The wind blows suddenly cold, as he sees the cars go past,
The returning hero’s, silent now, flags raised at half mast.

THERE STANDS A SOLDIER.

The heat hits him like a hammer blow, as he steps off the plane,
He knows he’ll never get to be “mummy’s little boy” again.
A man’s world he knows he’s in, all very serious stuff,
First briefings over, he understands right enough.

THERE STANDS A SOLDIER.

Two months on, unshaven, unwashed with a faraway look,
Lying on his bed for five minutes, reading someone else’s book.
He thinks back to his first patrol how scared he was inside,
Looks across at his mates still sitting there, and the ones that have died.

THERE STANDS A SOLDIER.

As the flag draped coffin is carried in, to sniffs and sobs and cries,
The national newspaper headline reads, “Another soldier dies”,
To thousands he maybe just that, one more on the sad list,
But to him he was a fantastic mate, who will be greatly and sadly, missed.

THERE STANDS A SOLDIER.

Alone he stares at the place, his mate will stay for good,
It doesn’t seem fair, and he’d tell him if he could.
He pulls up his collar and shivers, as the wind blows a little colder,
As other passers by look and whisper, THERE STANDS A SOLDIER.