William H.A. Willbond MSM, CD

THE WASHING OF HANDS

Punchy Pilot washed his hands
Over there in a foreign land.
He let the mob torture the King:
Crucified, whilst angels sing.

Our sick and wounded lay abed:
Laying there until they are dead.
Wounds suffered in Afghanistan:
Limbs are gone they cannot stand.

We had that great hospital, NDMC[1]
It gave great care to you and me.
They closed the doors to save a buck:
Our wounded just don’t have any luck.