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The Unknown Squaddies

I read in the paper that...
Another boy died in the war
Gunned down by the Taliban
His body riddled with bullets
Inside I weep
He was only nineteen, smiling in his dress uniform
He was on his last tour

I switched on the news and found out...
Another man died in the war
Blown up by dissidents
His truck hit a mine
Inside I weep
His whole town turned up for the funeral, his widow sobbed
Clutching on to his young children

I listened to the radio and heard...
A medic had died in the war
Shot in the crossfire
Trying to save a civilian
Inside I weep
She should have been down the pub with her mates, drinking and having a laugh
Instead she's silent forever

This is not a rant
Nor a diatribe about the morality of war
This is not about who is right or wrong politically
This is a prayer to the unknown squaddies, the sergeants, the majors, the battalions

I hope your feet are light
I hope your luck holds
I hope you only get flesh wounds
I hope to not find out about your deaths thorough the paper, TV or on the radio
Most of all I hope that you die of old age, your family littered around like encircling planets

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