MPGS Poem - as bad as the 'Father Christmas' one

Maybe I'm going to buck the trend here, but I think its a bit harsh to slag the MPGS. No doubt many of them are institutionalized, and work for crap wages doing a deathly boring, yet important job. But if that job relieves a regular soldier, sailor, or airman of stagging on, and these lads are happy to do it, then it's a win.

We used to have planks (Pioneer Corps for the NIGs), who did shit jobs like this, but they were good lads. They'd dig trenches, erect tentage, stag on, basically all the shit jobs that no-one else wanted to do in a headquarters. And they'd do it cheerily and efficiently. No, their RSM was never going to be AcSM, but so what?

As for the poem, yes indeed, at best you could describe it as "non-mainstream", but if it lets these lads have a bit of pride in what they do, where's the harm? No-one's saying they're brain surgeons, least of all the guys themselves.

To be honest, it's a bit reminiscent of middle-ranking staff officers and MOD CS using civvy-management speak to address military or naval needs and tasks. These people are also institutionalized and have little concept of P&L, so why are they using terms that relate directly thereto, in a military or naval environment?

Not that I'm white-knighting the modern-day planks over other "good lads doing a job no other cnut wants to do", but it just seems a bit harsh to me to slag these lads off. They're not top of the tree, and nor do they try to be. Unlike some others in the scope of this post.
I, for one, am not criticisng MPGS., apart from their poetry skills. Which are pretty sh!t.
I’ll just put this o’erlong, mawkish, sentimental tripe here:

In a station in the city a British soldier stood
Talking to the people there if the people would
Some just stared in hatred, and others turned in pain
And the lonely British soldier wished he was back home again

Come join the British Army! Said the posters in his town
See the world and have your fun come serve before the Crown
The jobs were hard to come by and he could not face the dole
So he took his country's shilling and enlisted on the roll

For there was no fear of fighting, the Empire long was lost
Just ten years in the army getting paid for being bossed
Then leave a man experienced a man who's made the grade
A medal and a pension some mem'ries and a trade

Then came the call to Ireland as the call had come before
Another bloody chapter in an endless civil war
The priests they stood on both sides the priests they stood behind
Another fight in Jesus name the blind against the blind

The soldier stood between them between the whistling stones
And then the broken bottles that led to broken bones
The petrol bombs that burnt his hands the nails that pierced his skin
And wished that he had stayed at home surrounded by his kin

The station filled with people the soldier soon was bored
But better in the station than where the people warred
The room filled up with mothers with daughters and with sons
Who stared with itchy fingers at the soldier and his gun

A yell of fear a screech of brakes the shattering of glass
The window of the station broke to let the package pass
A scream came from the mothers as they ran towards the door
Dragging children crying from the bomb upon the floor

The soldier stood and could not move his gun he could not use
He knew the bomb had seconds and not minutes on the fuse
He could not run to pick it up and throw it in the street
There were far too many people there too many running feet

Take cover! Yelled the soldier, Take cover for your lives
And the Irishmen threw down their young and stood before their wives
They turned towards the soldier their eyes alive with fear
For God's sake save our children or they'll end their short lives here

The soldier moved towards the bomb his stomach like a stone
Why was this his battle God why was he alone
He lay down on the package and he murmured one farewell
To those at home in England to those he loved so well

He saw the sights of summer felt the wind upon his brow
The young girls in the city parks how precious were they now
The soaring of the swallow the beauty of the swan
The music of the turning world so soon would it be gone

A muffled soft explosion and the room began to quake
The soldier blown across the floor his blood a crimson lake
They never heard him cry or shout they never heard him moan
And they turned their children's faces from the blood and from the bones

The crowd outside soon gathered and the ambulances came
To carry off the body of a pawn lost in the game
And the crowd they clapped and cheered and they sang their rebel songs
One soldier less to interfere where he did not belong

But will the children growing up learn at their mothers' knees
The story of the soldier who bought their liberty
Who used his youthful body as a means towards an end
Who gave his life to those who called him murderer not friend
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