a poem in tuesdays sun

this was in jon gaunts column sent in by an ex sqauddie doesnt say who wrote it though

it is the soldier not the minister
who has given us freedom of religion

it is the soldier not the reporter
who has given us the freedom of the press

it is the soldier not the poet
who has given us the freedom of speech

it is the soldier not the campus organiser
who has given us the freedom to protest

it is the soldier not the lawyer
who has given us the right of a fair trial

it is the soldier not the politician
who has given us the right to vote

its the soldier who salutes the flag
who serves beneath the flag
and whos coffin is draped by the flag
who allows the protester to burn the flag

damn right this should be required reading for school kids apologies if its been posted already
I wish that you hadn't for once said the scum when they have published this poem - prehaps just this once when they are on our side they deserve their real name, the Sun?

Also you should post this in the poems thread to be preserved for all time.

well spotted though and good poem!
sorry if this has been posted already, but was mailed to me tonight and wanted to share it

Why do you still march old man?
With those medals on your chest
Why do you still grieve old man?
For those friends you laid to rest
Why do you eyes gleam old man?
When you hear those bugles blow.
Tell me why you cry old man,
For those days so long ago

Ill tell you why I march young man,
With these medals on my chest,
Ill tell you why I grieve young man,
For those friends I laid to rest,
Through misty folds of gossamer silk,

So young they were with blossomed cheeks,
There eyes shone bright and clear,
Scant knowledge of this sinful world
Thought naught of hate and fear,
Their laughter rang through strange bare rooms,
Hardships, they were soon to know,
All they knew was beyond their shores,
Was a deadly vicious foe

They left behind their boring life,
They had nothing much to give,
So they laid their lives on the line,
So you, Young man can live.

With bayonet, gun and blossomed cheeks,
The innocence of their youth,
They stood. Alone with fearsome pride,
And perceived the awful truth,
The truth they learnt, they had to die,
It’s not easy when you’re young,
The Gods of war had chosen them,
And stilled their youthful tongues

The guns they crashed… The stukas dived,
Shells tore their flesh asunder.
I smelt their blood, I watched them die,
As war lords claimed their plunder.
And as these Warrior Gods passed by,
The smiled at their obscene death…
Gone were the apple- blossom cheeks,
Scorched by napalm pernicious breath

We buried them in a blanket shroud
Their young flesh scorched and blackened
A communal grave newly gouged
In the blood stained gorse and bracken.
And you ask me why I march… young man.
But…. For those apple blossomed youths,
Freedom…. Would have been lost to all

They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
old phrase

' if you can read this, thank a teacher

if you can read this in english, thank a soldier'

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