Colin F. Jones

THEY ARE WE

They are we, make no mistake,
Thoughts so confused are simply fake,
Some like to blame whom they don’t like,
And pedal along on an innocent bike;
I shed no tears for what they’ve done,
Mine beat upon my own true drum,
I had the choice to turn and run,
But I chose to serve an artillery gun.
They paid me well for all my work,
And I earned it all I did not shirk,
As I don’t turn against them now,
Because I’ve grown too old to push the plough.
For once a soldier and now a vet,
I served not one year that I regret.