By Timmy, Head of the Intern Department
War Unwanted: In Response to Tommy
A laundered soul on lonely hill
whistles softly, free from blame.
Then fighters, never lovers,
point fingers and cry “shame!”
The martial beat,
the standards fly,
Sometimes they fly double.
The laundered soul a-head the charge.
Alas, a stumble, then a fall
a man down, wounded, medic.
In need of tender loving care,
but kick after kick instead.
My face, my scent, my dress, my sex, my mum.
All ammunition in his gun.
All shots fired in good fun.
But bleed still. Bleed slow.
All because I wanted
my own damn beef
and horseradish sandwich.
A laundered soul, no more alone
aloft on righteous shoulders.
Survived the gun. The day is won.
Thank you, my striking soldiers.