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A referee’s whistle had pierced through his dream
He looks across no-mans land mud
He’d been dreaming of terraces and following his team
At a league match, or tie in The Cup?
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Granddad shows grandson, how his dad used to tackle
A brown leather football, a pram and a scarf
Shooting off home where a coal fire crackles
As the evening turned chilly and dark.
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Lighting a Woodbine he calls out her name
Stuck fast in the mire and the rain
He’s dreaming of Boxing Day, stood with her at the game
Highbury, Brisbane Road, or The Lane.
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A short burst on a whistle, machine guns ignite
He looks out on the carnage in pain
Dawn’s breaking is shattered by the flashing of light
The dying scream for their mothers in vain.
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Rats pick at corpses, alone and long dead
In bomb craters the wounded cry “help”
A long way from the football and life he once led
He’s sullen and warped by this hell.
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The wounded are bought in on stretchers and boards
Their sreaming is etched in his mind
Back home in Blighty tucked safely indoors
Are the kinfolk these braves left be-hind.
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So when stuffed watching telly, twiddling your toes
Too much food in your belly, Queen reading her notes
Remember real hero’s, so our generation won’t know
The Hades where laughter and youth fear to go!