A Soldier Speaks

So you’re sick of the way the country is run,

You’re sick of the way the rationings done,

And you’re sick of standing around in a line,

You’re sick you say – well that’s just fine,

So am I sick, of the sun and the heat,

And I’m sick of the feel of my aching feet,

And I’m sick of the mud and the jungle flies,

And I’m sick of the stench when the night mists rise.

And I’m sick of the sirens wailing shriek,

And I’m sick of the groans of the wounded and weak,

And I’m sick of the sound of the bombers dive,

And I’m sick of seeing the dead – alive.

I’m sick of the roar and the noise and the din,

Sick of the taste of food from a tin,

And I’m sick of the slaughter, sick to my soul,

I’m sick of playing a killers role.

I’m sick of death and blood and the shell,

And I’m even sick of myself as well,

But I’m sick still, of a tyrants rule,

And conquered lands where wilds hearts drool.

But I’m cured darn quick, when I think of the day,

When all this hell will be out of the way,

When none of this mess will have been in vain,

And the lights of the world will blaze again.

And things will be, as they were before,

And the kids will play in the streets once more,

And the axis flag will be dipped and furled,

As God looks down on a peaceful world.

Thomas Theodore Jones, 1918 - 1956