Charlie's Going Home
By Ed Crane
Packing up the guns we are going home
I’ll be riding the gun’s carriage no more
stinking of piss and chilled to the bone
with boils on my arse, unbearably sore.
But bear them I did, God only knows how
and I did my duty, fighting for right.
But was it worth it? I’m wondering now:
the faces of dead I see in the night.
But we were well back from the mud and blood
preparing the shells to drop on the Hun.
The cannon fire means my ear-drums are dud
But I’m alive – you are lucky my son.
And here’s to New Year nineteen-nineteen,
Better to forget the things I have seen.