I am here serving my time,
And I donít know where to draw the line,
Iíll never see the world through your eyes,
Blissfully unaware of the living lies.

My solid presence is here,
Told how not to show any fear,
But my body is hollow,
And senior commands I will blindly follow.

A womanís touch to me is xenon,
Like with you seeing a tanned albino,
My bed a cot and my duvet a sleeping bag,
Around my neck is my chain with tag.

I see couples cuddle on the box,
As I numbly wash my dirty socks,
I have been told that I am like a stone,
Maybe itís why I am so alone.

What will I do when I leave?
Maybe Iíll get out the gates and statue freeze,
Or maybe with my last memories laid,
Carried by six to my last parade.

Shed no tears for my life,
For I probably will not have a wife,
I always did try to do my duty,
But some people just think I am loopy.



If you have been there youíll know what I say,
When I talk about the Iraqi way,
For the rest it might be a surprise,
And might think it all lies.

At night itís hard to see,
Cos thereís rarely any electricity,
All the cables are intermingled,
So candles are often rekindled.

The rubbish in the streets is piled so high,
That itís impossible to pass by,
The kids speak English all the same,
With ďmeester waterĒ and ďwhatís your name?Ē

The smell in the towns are so different and vile,
One sniff can make you gag for a mile,
The acidic odour of a dead carcass,
Can be used as map reference markers.

Itís wise to always watch your feet,
Cos there are streams of human excrete,
When weíre driving around the fact is,
That we are used for rock throwing practice.

You always hope that you wonít stay long,
As youíre a target for a roadside bomb,
Clutching a picture hidden in your locket,
Especially when thereís an incoming rocket.

What I describe is a horrible scene,
And there are places just not foreseen,
Now you say that this canít all be true,
But I know that itís happening in Afghan too.



With burning smoke and bullets spray,
Here comes the wrath of days,
Like creeping fog in early may,
Here comes the Dies Irae.

With rockets scream and grenades throw,
Here comes the wrath of days,
So much blood where death will so,
Here comes the Dies Irae.

With mortar blow and bomb strike,
Here comes the wrath of days,
Wherever you go heads on a pike,
Here comes the Dies Irae.

With childís tears and bellies bloat,
There goes the wrath of days,
Rivers filled with bodies float,
There goes the Dies Irae.

With winters chill and cockroach scuttle,
There goes the wrath of days,
And if itís not that subtle,
Here comes the Dies Irae.



I am but a grain of sand,
Pretending to be part of this land,
Sifting through the plains of strife,
Trying to figure what to do with this life.

I am the grass that plays in the wind,
Swaying in the breeze on those that sinned,
Happy in the rays of brilliant light,
Being crushed by a hate filled blight.

I am but a flake of snow,
White in the drift, watches me flow,
Stained red with blossomed poppy I be,
Frozen forever but still wonderfully free.



Iím here cos Iím Not All There,
is that why you always stare,
itís the reason why I always have a map,
lay out across my lap.

Iím here cos Iím Not All There,
and it doesnít really seem fair,
The needle of my compass spins,
Trying to point to all my deadly sins.

Iím here cos Iím Not All There,
and I stand halfway up, or is it down the stair?
were are the answers to my questions,
Can you make few suggestions?

Iím here cos Iím Not All There,
Now Iím running out of precious air,
The world is starting to go grey,
is this the karma that I have to pay?

Iím here cos Iím Not All There,
when a hand thrusts into my musty lair,
it seems like Iím the exemption,
and one loving touch will give me redemption.



There is a great king on a hill,
I left his halls naught half a centuries and one past,
And I ride the fate of time still,
Thinking that he will forever last.

After a long battle with the beast, I had to rest,
And the kind king bade me a bed to stay,
And as I wondered his cloisters once more,
The same hall unchanged that I used to pray.

Only the tapestries have changed,
Not the walls, not the floors, not the masters,
Just more wrinkles and manes but the same smiles,
Smiles that is tires of the pourboires of time.

There used to be rooms full of learning and studies,
Now empty and barred to those that dares,
Only half the scholars remain now,
Not seeing the empty spaces in the next chairs.

The brave warriors that trained each week,
Used to fill the parade square to full,
Now hardly a platoon of unwilling,
Still heckled by the Frosty drill master.

I remember the kings court being the envy of the realm,
Now old and decrepit coats, <
It lasted a hundred years before my time,
But the crumbling walls have finally given to its ghosts.

I turn away with a heavy and troubled soul,
The mirror of my departure before,
For it pains me to leave this king close to death,
But the trumpets call me back to war.

So adieu kind king on the hill,
Remember me as I remember you,
A bright academy sparkling and gay,
In your annals I will forever stay, adieu.

I shall weep forever for your past glory,



The raindrops mix with my tear,
The ones I shed when I show my fears,
The scars I bear, you cannot trace,
For I always see his long dead face.

I stumble but I do not fall,>
Held upright by my brothers all,
Together we stand against the strife,
To uphold freedom and for your life.

We held the book and gave the vow,
To fight and die for you right now,
I meant every word I said that day,
And to go fighting, the glory way.

When we finally came back to you,
Please understand what weíve been through,
We marched to the gates and back,
And spilt our blood on the muddy track.

All I wish to see in blossomed fruition,
Is the finish of this endless mission,
To lay content in loving faith,
And know that you are finally safe.



My mind is dry and my words are gone,
Never again to play that beautiful song,
I feel sometimes hollow and numb,
And the old stuff is no longer fun.

I have travelled to places so far away,
The places whose description you canít say,
The desert stretches off to a distant hill, >
Were the enemy waits for our boys to kill?

But itís not just in those hills we fight,
Also in the river banks green we bite,
Our teeth as sharp as the executionerís sword,
Again and again we take the fjord.

Every time we do, more British blood is spilt,
And every time we wade back through the silt,
We ask why we always give it back,
The brass just say ďitís cos the troops we lack.Ē

So again and again we go out to claim,
The source of so much blood and pain,
No matter what, I fight with the best,
But the wind there whispers ďFor you Terminus Est.Ē



My bones creak with the weight of forever,
Around my neck is tied a leaded tether,
I remember the places I have been,
Especially most of the horrors I have seen.

I never forget the smell of death,
How its acrid stench burns your breath,
The sight of its eyeless gaze,
Forever in my mind it plays

An uncontrolled memory,
n a chaotic symphony,
The sweat rolls down my back,
Iím having another panic attack.

The fog of war clouds my eyes,
My pulse begins to rise,
I thought my test was done,
And this for me it did stun.

I hope this will soon end,
And that I could talk with a friend,
Someone who also knows this test,
To combat Öcombat stress.



We are the ones, who are proud,
The silent ones that donít make a sound,
Like ghosts we flicker from the shadows,
The shiver that shoots down your marrows.

We are the ones without burning hate,
The professional ones that are never late,
Either in ice or the desert sun,
This is what we call fun.

We are the ones, who never tire,
Even as we look across the mire,
Through endless bogs of dried mud,
We hunt the ones with guilty blood.

We are the ones, who tread the path,
And in deaths face, we do laugh,
In battle, we fight till the end,
And to god, the fallen dead we send.

We are the ones, who you forget,
Whose days and nights are not a test,
You are the ones without a story,
And do not shed blood for peaceful glory.