An Anzac poem

Anzac Day will soon be here

Thoughts of courage and of fear

Men who fought across the sea

Awfully glad it wasn’t me

Dad was gone for several years

Never saw my mother’s tears

She was brave when I was three

Awfully glad it wasn’t me

Letters home already read

By Sergeant Major’s evil head

He’d snigger at the words so kind

To wives and children left behind

They suffered hardship, misery

Awfully glad it wasn’t me

Occasionally back home he’d tell

Tales of unremitting hell . . . . . .

A comrade jostled in the gloom

Struggled just to make some room

A gre-nade in the trench had hit

Threw himself on top of it

Blew himself to bits its true

Gave himself to save a few

He was brave and we were free

Awfully glad it wasn’t me

All of those have passed away

My thoughts of them are rare today

But somewhere, still, they can’t agree

They’re killing those who cannot flee

Awfully glad it isn’t me

Froda