THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

See! He sits beneath an old yew tree,
Aiming an imaginary gun;
Pegging pebbles at the crescent suns
As they chase beneath the shadowy leaves.

Noonday, and he is airborne
Past the street pavement as he calls:
“Leave her to me Mac!”
And he fields a cannon ball.

Sometimes he sees mirages playing out
On the rim of the evening twilight:
He fears some grim manoeuvre is afoot
And soon he’ll be having again to fight.

“What does he be at?”
A sad boy asks his mum.

“He’s just mad, and that’s that!
He was wounded in some war son.”

“Then what did he fight for Mam.
And why was there a war?”

“For peace, freedom and principles son—
And for the sacred scriptures of the poor.”

"Then Mam what he won wasn’t worth it,
Or he must have left it behind,
Or this piece was glass — that hurt his heart;
Or too much freedom is bad for the mind.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

And what of these sacred pictures Mam?
They must cost a bit to the poor!
And why are principles
Always at war?"

The mom says “oh you’re so deep
And you speak so smart;
The world wouldn’t be in such a heap
If others had your art.”

The soldier says to the mom:
“That frigger will find me another fight.
Buy the brat a gum shield;
Or just teach him to stay quiet.”