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No acknowledgment from any one,
For the sacrifice we had made.
No cheering in the streets for us,
No welcome home, well done, parade.
Protesters marched down George Street,
To the songs Bob Dylan sang.
But no one saved our mate,
No one watched young "Jacko" hang.
Warrant Officer Tommy robbed a bank,
In the hope that he'd get shot,
But they bought him down alive,
And fifteen years is what he got.
Yes they marched in protest,
But did any of them really care,
When Tommy left his tortured life,
With a bed sheet and a chair.
Miles took off, headed for the bush,
Out there for years he hid away,
Until good old "Broken Benny"
Found what was left of him that day.
He'd been camping in The Grampians,
Trying to survive his private hell,
Trying to avoid those who'd judge him,
It's a place we all know well.
I've been sleeping on the sofa,
While she sleeps in bed alone,
For she can't abide my screaming,
When I hear the chopper's engine groan.
My lungs they burn like fire,
From the napalm the Yankees use
The TV flickers in the corner,
Our war is always on the news.
Protesters marched down George Street,
To the songs Bob Dylan sang.
No one saved our mate,
No one watched young "Jacko" hang
Old men march with medals gleaming,
I stay away, for I know I don't belong,
I'm the one, who served his country,
But, somehow, what I did was wrong.
Tagged in Poetry