Colin F. Jones


Who the hell was granddad, I don’t know,
He died before my birth,
He went to fight in world war one,
That raged all over the Earth.

I know he was a gunner though,
Just the same as his grandson me,
He carted ammo to the front,
With his horses gallantly.

He did not die on the battle field,
He came home to die instead,
Hell he was only forty one,
When they found that he was dead.

My father he went off to war,
Out there in the middle of France,
With the British expeditionary force,
They did not stand a chance,

My uncles; four of them were there,
They all did their little bit,
Not that anyone now would care,
Who were not part of it.

All of them came home again,
Dunno if they suffered pain,
But when they finally all got back
They seemed to be same.

They built monuments in every town,
And in every village too,
Worth a bit more than half a crown,
But it was thought the thing to do.

Now monuments like old graves stand,
As new veterans build their own,
Alongside them across the land,
For the current folks to clone.

As we age and new wars start
And more soldiers go and die,
Granddad is forgotten and his cart,
And nobodies asking who was I.

My Father well he’s still alive,
But he don’t get out no more,
He was lucky I guess to survive,
From a now forgotten war.

It’s all a bit like a ping pong game,
The ball going back and forth,
The Summer bringing heat again
The Snow freezing in the north.

I guess when it is good and said
This is just the way life goes,
You survive until you lie down dead,
And turn up your wrinkled toes.

Who the hell wants to remember El Alamein,
Or Dunkirk or the Somme,
War is all about Saddam Hussein,
‘Cause all the other wars have gone.

And I guess our kids will remember us,
But their kids I don’t think will,
‘Cause the blokes we fought were different blokes,
To the ones they’ll want to kill.

So round and round the cycle goes,
We fight and kill and cry,
Forever turning up our toes,
Forever asking why.