Dear Mrs. Hamza

I am the lad who killed your son
Kuwait 1991
he had no time to parry
his hands were not loath and cold
for me and my mate Barry
if the truth be told
we gave him no chance
when he put up his hands
to surrender

We knocked him down hard
at 500 yards
with our assault rifles
and our youthful zeal
'cos we had heard stories
they were strapped with explosives
and filled with religious zeal

We were raised on Nintendo and pills, you see
had that Saturday night sensation
when our tanks hit the desert
on a cold moonlit night -
a Vietnam movie
for the E Generation

And as I watched the artillery and tracers
it felt like The Hacienda
the lasers, the fear in the belly, the strobes
of a two-day Ecstasy bender

You see, Mrs. Hamza
your boy was already dead
I'd centred him in my sights
that day our unit received its orders
then went on the piss that night -
in an Aldershot disco
that ran a vodka promotion
we toasted violent death
by some faraway ocean

Mrs. Hamza, your little white house with a courtyard
is filled with the scent of cardamon
I will never see the tears you shed
as you hold a photo of a boy who is gone

We will never meet, Mrs. Hamza
I offer only this explanation -
it was a Vietnam movie
for the E Generation.