I’m a poor British soldier and I’m fighting a war
And each day that passes, I wonder “what for”?
We’re told it’s for ‘Freedom’ and ‘Country’ and ‘King’,
So over the White Cliffs, a Bluebird can sing.

We’re told to hate Jerry who started this show;
He’s murdered and maimed, this tyrannical foe;
So we’ve bombed him, we’ve shot him, we’ve burned him with flame
And we’ve done all of this in the King and God’s name!.

And after each battle we search out our dead,
And lay them to rest with a cross at each head.
And were these men ‘ heroes’? no, just ordinary blokes,
Who swore and got drunk and told corny old jokes.

Fighting for freedom? probably not!
But the wife, and the kids and the vegetable plot,
And a pint at the local and a quick game of darts,
And the love of their kinfolk, in mind and in hearts.

Their bodies lie rotting beneath foreign sod,
But I pray that their souls are now safely with God.
And not just our soldiers, but all innocent chaps
The Jerries, the Eyties, the Yanks and the Japs.

And if that sounds crazy, I’ll tell you full well,
It isn’t those men who should be damned to Hell.
It’s the ‘grey’ politicians who hide behind desks,
Knowing that they won’t be risking their necks.

Sending ‘communiqués’ in language so fine,
Resulting in statements like “peace in our time!”
Greed, hate and vanity, ambition that’s raw,
Get rid of those and you’ll get rid of war.
So ‘Tommy’ sleeps soundly, for he’s earned his rest,
Don’t ever forget him – he ranks with the best!.

Ian Ashford
1992