Tonight as we lay down and before we go to sleep,
I reckon if you be honest,
The diggers would ask this,
as we stood to our feet.
“Please forgive my ripped uniform,
Of course my bloody stained hair,
I’d have asked for a new one, if I could find a fare,
The fare that I’d need to come back to life, and
Real clothes I would wear proud.
Instead I’ve only what I died in, and
Hang around up here in clouds.
But I promise next year I’ll try and wash me face,
I’ll not have the bloodstained hair,
and my clothes I’ll try replace.
But forgive me if I haven’t lived up to this,
for having something real to hang them on is something we all miss.
Cause as you know when the sun rose,
And the whistle blew,
Over the top into machine gun fire,
Yep of course we all knew.
I looked down this morning however, I saw a young man asking the right thing for once,
It’s not memory’s I want,
Let us all forget the guns.
Let us not write home tonight,
Or take our watches off to be sent on home,
Let us not stand in these trenches,
God I wish my name was not etched there in that stone.
Of course we all gave as it was our belief,
And we hoped it makes things right.
But I would give anything,
To come home today with you in life.
Lest we Forget.
By William Croxon
FILE PHOTO: Suburban ANZAC Day tribute, Brisbane, 25 April 2020. Photo by CONTACT stringer Christabel Migliorini. Follow her on Instagram.