Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

They are but words – love and hate,
There is just death. That is our fate;
It doesn’t matter if I die…
And it solves nothing, to ask why.
If I am killed: so what? So what?
Just another soldier has been shot!
For that is what we soldiers do…
Expendable like a worn out shoe!!
They’ll mourn for me, I don’t know why,
I guess because it makes them cry,
They need to dissolve their inner pain…
That’s why they grieve; for their own gain.
Their loss; not mine; I am dead;
All such thoughts blown from my head.

~ 2 ~

You can’t see me mate; I’m up here!
Hey! Can’t you see me? Up here, up here!
I’m looking down upon a grave,
Looks like a dim, dark sunken cave.
They have a carcass in a box,
With a sealed lid that has no locks,
They’ve draped a flag across the top,
And all the while the tears don’t stop,
And here I sit in the lap of God,
While they lower that coffin in the sod.
I wonder who the funerals for,
Those men in black near the hearses door,
Or could it be for the good and right,
Who sent me over there to fight?

~ 3 ~

I guess they can’t leave it lying round,
Better to plant it in the ground,
But why all the flowers coats and ties,
Well it’s what they do when someone dies.
They don’t shovel the dirt in with a spade,
They have an industrial back hoe with a blade,
They do it when the folks have gone,
When all the prayers and tears are done,
When there is no one left to care,
And the withering flowers lie everywhere.
Time and weather will flatten the mound,
And they’ll build a monument all around,
Not for me for I’m not there,
But for those who love; and those who care.