The wanderer

A short poem about a man finding his way in life. Relates to war.


1. The Wanderer

For six long years I lived out of a bag, needing nothing but my looks and my actors' swag.

I needed some time to find the thin line and and in 1914 I got my wish.

War was a-waiting and so was my fate. The trumpets and flare and one or two mates. What was to be found, on that torn up ground was forgotten in the mist of corpse...

And the band played Waltzing Matilda, a spring of hope, a dance a laugh and an awesome joke.

Yet through the mist I could only see so far, the war was over, here I am ma'!!

But the bombs they dropped, and barrels did roll, and so climbed that ever growing death toll.

Those lost in battle weren't all lost at war, the horrors on the field weren't the worst things we saw.

No parade, a joke of a pin, I kept that thing in an old dusty tin. For what, for you? For that I should sue, as I sit here a cold and restless old shoe.
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