This blog contains material I wrote and posted on between the years 2005 and 2011 only. It does not contain any new material. For newer writing, please check my main blog (Bill the Butcher).

Friday, 12 October 2012

The Soldier

“It’s the highest calling, one’s country to serve,
Join up and see the world, you know
The soldier’s life is the best of the best.”

He heard it and he joined his country to serve,
(And besides he needed a job)
And they put him in the army.

His parents had brought him up
His school had educated him
His world had prepared him

All his life, had prepared him
To be what he was, and he was
A recruit in the army.

They shaved his hair off, they gave him heavy boots
They put him in a uniform, to grow him new roots
They put a helmet on his head, to keep thoughts confined

A rucksack on his back, to give him second wind
And they put a rifle in his hand, and he was
A soldier in the army.

They taught him to drill
They taught him to kill
For such are the skills

Of a soldier in the army.

They sent him off to a foreign land
Because a war had to be fought
On the other side of the world

And the cameras flashed and the girls waved
And one hugged him and gave him a flag
It made him proud to be in the army

The band played the anthem, the flag flapped in the wind
Everyone saluted, and they boarded the planes
Bound to glory for the homeland,

In a war on the other side of the world
A righteous war, he was told,
To keep the country free. 

The enemy was evil, the enemy was bad
And the people under his boot were weary and sad
And the enemy hated the freedoms they gave him

In the nation’s proud army.

He marched down a street
And bullets smacked the ground at his feet
So he shot back, and destroyed

A part of the enemy.
Only the enemy was twelve years old
And had never touched a gun,

And he marched in the sun
And more bullets smacked the ground
From the evil, defeated enemy.

It was a righteous war, he’d been told
And if he fought it like a hero of old
The world would be a better place,

And he marched in the sun
And sometimes he fired his gun
And still the war fought but never won.

And he stood in line in the sun
Waiting for his coffee and his bun
When a comrade’s finger slipped on a trigger

And his patriotism and his heroism
Leaked red from a hole in his skull and his helmet
And mixed with the dust of that distant country.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2009

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