God…WE WUZ ‘ARD!. Oh so I thought in far off days when I was young.
A group of six or so of us, with upright stance, and voice unsung,
With tailored pants, and puttees brown, beret too small, and hair cut fine,
We owned the world, from village pub to hotel bar, our hallowed shrine.
From toiling up the Brecon slopes in filthy kit and foot deep snow,
To standing on a Hercy Bird, at the ramps end, our grit to show.
To all the world.
We were the cream, the very best, the ‘Crap Hats’ scurge, above the rest.
And when our time to fight did come, we gave them s**t, no quarter hold,
Our friends our brothers, unparting cord, the comradeship, forever bold.
For we were second to no man, and had respect for very few.
As animals we lived and fought, for there was nought we couldn’t do.
We stood together at graves end, a comrade lost, the angel sings.
For each man on his uniform, a little pair of wings.

Now as the years went rolling by, I tried to carry on that myth.
A Civvie now, but with the code implanted firm,
For I believed I had the gift.
And I judged others by that length, that yardstick fixed firm in my mind.
But very few matched up to it, and I yearned long for my own kind.
I brought my two sons up that way, on barrack square, with nought to say.
Because I thought that I was right, the rest were wrong, and they should pay.
Then Mr Mirror I did see, one day as he looked back at me.
The truth dawned hard within my mind, my eyes looked back, and I could see.
That all the years that I had lived, in self imposed obscurity,
Had been a farce, a wasted life, with nothing but PTSD.
And so I must amend my ways, change all in life, the little things,
Because for years my life was ruled, by that little pair of wings.