A memorial to the men who died

Who suffered in the war which they despised

Who fought to save this fucking land

Their only defence was a gun in their hand

A forced impression, indoctrination

Bitter hatred of the enemy, war had to be won

Each soldier was the same, they’d be friends if they could

But you had to kill the enemy, to dance in his blood

A memorial – the statue stands straight

A memorial – to the men who were great

A memorial – the moss covered stone

A memorial – to the soldiers called Jones

A memorial – the names sunk in black

A memorial – but it won’t bring them back

A memorial – the dead buried in a hole

A memorial – but did they ever reach their goal?

And perhaps twenty visitors each year

Come to mourn the deaths of those so dear

And a wreath is thrown by those sincere

To the men who deserve the final tear

And the blood drips from the soldier’s heart

The penalty for playing the part

How long do you think their world will last?

They’ll be forgotten soldiers in a forgotten past

© Chris Bond — 1980

A song written for my embryonic Truro punk band and inspired by the war memorial on Boscawen Street. Used by a Plymouth punk band four years later. The lyrics are self-explanatory.