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There’s a street for ex-soldiers from all generations,

from Suez to Bosnia by way of the Falklands.

It’s serene and peaceful with a green in the middle.

Everyone leaves their door off the latch

and every handshake hides a private smile.

 

if you lived in the Fifties and had no imagination.

There’s barely a scream, when it’s daylight at least,

and the nights are submerged in alcohol and Valium.

 

with a precision that comes from years of training.

None of them ever go to the doctor

and pitifully few are still with their wives.

 

Some have become adept over the course of the years

at making small talk with the emergency services,

but the sight of an argument can move them to tears

and they all lock their windows on Bonfire Night.

 

although the only thing they fight for now is their pension,

and to maintain some kind of rapport with their children.

Not many of them think they'll going to heaven,

 

of men who’ve seen chance toss a coin with their lives,

and as long as we’re happy to send more to replace them,

we should wear our poppies with shame,

not pride.