PRIME CUT (A POEM)
Contributor / 2010-04-17 14:30:25
Afghanistan is where I am, and I’m about to die.
A soldier, living, loving: lying looking at the sky.
A bullet’s deep inside of me, my life-blood flows away.
There’s nothing can be done for me; except – please could you pray?
I’m praying now for Mum and Dad, they mean so much to me
My brother and my sister too: my loving family.
Then there’s my girl: I love Clare so, we were all set to marry
I wish we had, would that be bad? Too much, too sad to carry?
In the army I’ve done well: reports said I’m ‘an asset’.
But now the saddest drive for me: the High Street, Wootton Bassett.
I’m just an ordinary lad, for heroes that’s reserved.
Who, me - hero? I don’t think so: that’s not what I deserved.
I hope that they’re all proud of me: I must die like a man
like thousands have before me, just slaughtered like a lamb.
Alhough I’m trying to be brave, all I can do is cry
Why did it have to happen now? God, please don’t let me die.
The First, The Second? Falklands? There’s no good place to die.
It’s not so much where it is: the question should be – why?
Now it seems so pointless to me: lying, dying here.
I can’t go on, but mankind can. Life is so very dear.
Tags: Poetry, Afghanistan, Soldier