For those who dont know or understand.

Why Do We Still March?

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

I'll tell you why I march, young man
With medals on my chest
I'll tell you why I grieve young man
For those friends I laid to rest
Through misty folds of gossamer silk
Come visions of distant times
When boys of very tender age
Marched forth to distant climes

So young they were, with blossom cheeks
Their eyes shone bright and clear
Scant knowledge of this sinful world
Thought nought of hate or 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, would live

With bayonet, gun and blossom 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
Shell tore their flesh asunder
I smelt their blood, watched them die
The war lords claimed their plunder
And as these warrior gods passed by
They smiled at their obscene death
Gone were their apple-blossom cheeks
Scorched by napalm burning breath!

We buried them in a blanket shroud
Their young flesh scorched and blacken
A communal grave newly gouged
In the blood-stained earth
And you ask me why I march! Young man
I march to remind you all
But for those apple-blossom youths
You would never have known freedom, at all.

Bill Ridley
The point of your post being?
If it's a top trumps type of post, I see your prose and raise you this,

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Gets me every time.

Edited to add

I also remember some wise words from a cantankerous old blerk on here,

Over there,
there was a cow,
it must have moved,
it's not there now.

Forgive me for having shoite sense of humour, but you would be surprised how often that crops up in everyday conversation.
My personal favourite:

Bent double, like old beggers under sacks
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags we cursed through sludge
'Til on the haunting flares we'd turned our backs
And to our distent rest began to trudge

Men marched asleep
Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood-shod
Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the sound
Of the shells dropping softly behind

"Gas! Gas! Gas! Quick boys!"
An extasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time
But someone still was calling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.

Dim, through misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea I saw him drowning
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He lungs at me - guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some fever dream you to could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in
And see the white eyes writhing in his face
His hanging face, like a devil sick of sin
And hear the blood come gargling from his froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile sore on innocent tongues

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children, ardent for some desperate glory
The Old Lie: Dulce Et Decorm Est
Pro Patrie Morte.

(Forgive the Mong spelling)
What's that? Sappers bringing the tone down to a level somwhere around that of provincial binmen? Jolly good - carry on!
hairyarse2 said:
I also remember some wise words from a cantankerous old blerk on here,

Over there,
there was a cow,
it must have moved,
it's not there now.
William McGonagall: "In a field, there stood a coo. It's no' there noo, it must ha' shifted."

Says it all, really.

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