Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => Aces High General Discussion => Topic started by: Tac on September 01, 2001, 11:54:00 PM
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Here's some i've found. Please ONLY post if you find another poem and add it to the list, see if we can get a thread of good reading and not mindless jabber.
The War Pony
Valhalla's gates are opened wide, it's portals ever bending,
To receive those men, the sons of Mars, whoses lives on earth are ending.
This land alone, for aeons past, receives that mighty horde,
The brave anbold of many lands who have perished by the sword.
There is little new to mark this right, this fate intended,
For fighting men to find a home of peace that's never ended.
There's no lament, no hue or cry - the past is all forgotten, Friend and foe are quick to forget the cause they cast their lot in.
What need to harbor grudge and hate? The fight was grim but just.
The men and arms were even matched - the victor too is dust.
And so it goes, as in ages past, the long thin lines ascending.
The warrior clan still wends it's way to the final rest that's pending.
But lo, the scene is changing now - I know not the reason why.
But the tranquil air and happy gait have vanished in the sky.
The marchers now angered much, their wrath they cannot hold.
Though hard to hear, the hate they spill would make one's blood run cold.
With silver wings and jaunty caps, but weary from retreat.
The vanquished German Air Corps strides, embittered by defeat.
The clamor grows, it's not quite clear, but this I get at least
The thing they hate and fear the most is not a man, but beast.
I harken close, my interest piqued - what can this be they fear?
The batt;e's done, that life is over - it cannot hurt them here.
Atlast I asked "What is this thing? This thing you loathe and fear?"
"The Mustang, friend," they all replied, "It's venom brought us here."
"This was a war on even terms and fair as wars do go.
Till that devil machine, the fifty-one, dealt its mortal blow.
What kind of craft is this," they said, "that flies for seven hours,
and goes so fast it picks the time and place to combat ours?"
"The bombing raids wee doomed to fail - the Forts were our fair game,
Till those Mustang escorts came along and shot us down in flame.
Our One -0-Nine had held it's own - the Focke Wulfs never feared.
But neither could hope to best the foe when that Fifty-one appeared."
"Damn that Schmued and damn his skill- he's the devil's own magician.
We'd send his Mustang straight to hell if we could pick it's mission."
And as they entered Valhalla's gates, a voice rang loud and clear,
"If God be just, and I know he must, then there are no Mustangs in here!"
--Buddy Joffrion
Reprinted from King's Cliffe Remebered
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HIGH FLIGHT
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silver wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence; hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sancity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
--John Gillespie Magee, Jr., 3 Sept., 1941
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American Beauties of 1944
Oh, Hedy Lamarr is a beautiful gal
And Madeline Caroll is too.
But the loveliest thing of which one could sing
(This side of the heavenly gates)
Is no blond or brunette of the Hollywood set-
But an escort of P-38's.
In the days that have passed, when the tables were massed
With glasses of Scotch or Champagne
It's true that the sight was a thing to delight
Intent upon feeling no pain.
But no longer the same,nowadays in this game.
When flying north from the straits.
Take the sparkling wine - but I'll just make mine
An escort of P-38's.
Byron, Shelley and Keats ran a dozen dead heats
Describing the view from the hills,
Of the valleys in May when the soft wind sway
An army of bright daffodils -by Byron and Shelley
And yours in myrtle, friend Keats:
Just reserve me those cuties - American Beauties-
An escort of P-38's.
We're braver than hell; on the ground all is well
In the air it's a different story;
We sweat out our track through the fighters and flak
We're willing to split up the glory.
They wouldn't reject us, so heaven protect us,
And, until the shooting abates,
Give us courage to fight 'em - one other small item,
An escort of P-38's.
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IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
the larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders Fields.
-- John McRae
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'Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori'
Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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'The General'
Siegfried Sasson
'Good morning; good morning!' the General said,
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
'He's a cheery old card,' grunted Harry to Jack,
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
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'This is No Case of Petty Right or Wrong'
Edward Thomas
This is no case of petty right or wrong
That politicians or philosophers
Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot
With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers.
Beside my hate for one fat patriot
My hatred of the Kaiser is love true:--
A kind of god he is, banging a gong.
But I have not to choose between the two,
Or between justice and injustice. Dinned
With war and argument I read no more
Than in the storm smoking along the wind
Athwart the wood. Two witches' cauldrons roar.
From one the weather shall rise clear and gay;
Out of the other an England beautiful
And like her mother that died yesterday.
Little I know or care if, being dull,
I shall miss something that historians
Can rake out of the ashes when perchance
The phoenix broods serene above their ken.
But with the best and meanest Englishmen
I am one in crying, God save England, lest
We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed.
The ages made her that made us from dust:
She is all we know and live by, and we trust
She is good and must endure, loving her so:
And as we love ourselves we hate her foe.
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Jisei to wa
sunawachi mayoi
tada shinan
Death poems
are mere delusion-
death is death.
Toko (1795)
A BEACH IN FRANCE
Last night I sat and watched a man die
He wasn't afraid he seemed in good cheer.
Last night I sat and asked myself why
A dying man should feel no fear.
One minute he breathed, a faint smile on his face
He wasn't afraid he seemed so at peace
One minute he was here and then he was gone
An empty shell in a lonely space
He said "At last I'm old" and then he died
Too many go young when a thief steals their time
At least he was warm, with a friend by his side
No one should die alone
Last night I sat and watched a man die
He was'nt afraid, he'd faced death before
Last night he told me how he'd stolen his time
On a beach in France in '44'.
From youth he jumped chest high in pink water
Wading ashore in another worlds war
Random selection in a senseless slaughter
Praying to his Jesus for a few minutes more
He killed his first man near that beach in France
Fifty years later he still prayed for his soul
He found his God on that beach in France
Crying in terror in a too shallow hole
(Dedicated to the memory of ex Sergeant Arthur Walton,
Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, British Army 1939 - 1947)
Frank Gibbons
DEAR MOM
The war is over now
My task is finally through,
But Mom there is something
I must ask of you.
I have a friend, oh what a friend
He has no home you see,
So Mom I would like
To bring him home with me.
If someone comes home with you,
I'm sure that he could stay
For a day or two.
Please Mom, I have to tell you something
Please don't be alarmed,
My friend, you see in battle
Happen to lose one arm.
My son, don't be afraid
To bring him home with you,
He could stay and visit
For even a week or two.
But Mom, he's not just a friend
He's a brother too,
That's why I want him to live with us
And be a son to you.
But...before you give me answer
There's something I must say,
My friend fought in a battle
In which he lost a leg.
My son, it hurts me to say this
But my answer must be no,
Your father and I would have no time
For one who is crippled so.
Sometime later a letter came
Saying their son was dead,
And when they read the cause of death
"Suicide" it said.
Sometime later when the casket came
Wrapped with the country flag,
They saw their son lying there
With out an arm or leg.
THE GREEN FIELDS OF FRANCE
Well how do you do, Private William MacBride
do you mind if I sit here by your graveside?
And I'll rest for a while in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone that you were only 19
when you joined the dead heroes in 1915.
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
or Willie MacBride was it slow and obscene?
Well the sun's shining now on these green fields of France,
a warm wind blows gently and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished under the plow
no gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that is still No Man's land
the countless white crosses in mute witness stand.
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
to a whole generation that was butchered and damned.
And I can't help but wonder now Willie MacBride
do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you the cause?
Did you really believe them that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame -
the killing and dying - it was all done in vain.
Oh Willie MacBride, it's all happened again
and again, and again, and again, and again.
And did you leave wife or a sweetheart behind,
in some faithful heart are you forever enshrined?
And though you died back in 1915
to some faithful heart are you forever 19?
Eric Bogle
NOT TO KEEP
They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying . . . and she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight --
Living. -- They gave him back to her alive --
How else? They are not known to send the dead --
And not disfigured visibly. His face? --
His hands? She had to look -- to ask,
"What was it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all -- they had -- they the lucky!
Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissable ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
"Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest -- and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.
Robert Frost
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(http://www.worldaccessnet.com/~delta6/pics/the_bombers.jpg)
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Flakbait [Delta6]
Delta Six's Flight School (http://www.worldaccessnet.com/~delta6)
Put the P-61B in Aces High
"For yay did the sky darken, and split open and spew forth fire, and
through the smoke rode the Four Wurgers of the Apocalypse.
And on their canopies was tattooed the number of the Beast, and the
number was 190." Jedi, Verse Five, Capter Two, The Book of Dweeb
(http://www.worldaccessnet.com/~delta6/sig/lie.gif)
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nice thread.
I'm actually looking for a poem writen from a ball-turret gunners perspective.
I heard it in the discovery channel, it was quite moving. in the end he mentions how he dies and they clean him out of the plane with a hose.
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While not a poem, I find this song by Pink Floyd very poetic.
WHEN THE TIGERS BROKE FREE
It was just before dawn
One miserable morning in black '44
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn
And the generals gave thanks
As the other ranks
Held back the enemy tanks for a while
And the Anzio bridghead was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary lives
And kind old King George sent mother a note
When he heard that father was gone
It was, I recall, in the form of a scroll
With gold leaf and all
And I found it one day
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away
And my eyes still grow damp
To remember
That his majesty signed
With his own rubber stamp
It was dark all around
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free
And no one survived from the Royal Fusiliers, Company C
They were all left behind
Most of them dead
The rest of them dying
And that's how the high command
Took my daddy from me
-Roger Waters
The 'Tigers' metaphor actually refers to the German 'Tiger' tanks..
I actually uploaded the song to a webspace so you can downloaded (its not illegal since the song was never released in any record)
I recomend you download it.
Pink Floyd - When the Tigers broke free (http://home.coqui.net/dimitri/mp3/PinkFloyd-When_the_Tigers_Broke_Free.mp3)
[ 09-02-2001: Message edited by: Animal ]
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Randall Jarrell
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
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Tommy
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
-- Rudyard Kipling
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
-- William Butler Yeats
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Murder at your every foot step
A child's toy sudden death
Sniper blazes you through your knees
Falling down can you feel the heat
Burn!
Ambushed by the spray of lead
Count the bullet holes in your head
Offspring sent out to cry
Living mandatory suicide.
Suicide!
Suicide!
Suicide!
Suicide!
Holes burn deep in your chest
Raked by machine gun fire
Screaming soul sent out to die
Living mandatory suicide.
Suicide!
Suicide!
Suicide!
Suicide!
Lying, dying, screaming in pain
Begging, pleading, bullets drop like rain
Mines explode, pain sheers through your brain
Radical amputation
This is insane.
Ice water stakes drive through your chest
Spikes impale you as you're forced off the crest
Soldier of misfortune
Hunting with bated breath.
A vile smell, like tasting death
Dead bodies, dying and wounded
Litter the city streets
Shattered glass, bits of clothing and human debris.
Dying in terror,
Blood's cheap, it's everywhere
Mandatory suicide, massacre on the front line.
[ 09-04-2001: Message edited by: funkedup ]
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Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Check that six,
Now watch me shoot You!
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Originally posted by Animal:
I actually uploaded the song to a webspace so you can downloaded (its not illegal since the song was never released in any record)
actually it was release around 1982(?) as a single. 2 parts i believe - anyway the same song appears on 'the wall' it's just called "bring the boys back home"
here's another good poem masquerading as a song - it is from a group called 'the damned' released in the early 80's or late 70's called in dulce decorum:
Dear mother, how will I write this line
When I know I'm counting time
I'm tired and I'm scared
I'm waiting, and death's my friend
To say in God we trust
Not for this
Oh the death and glory, boys
Not for this
Oh, not for this
Dulce dulce decorum
Dear beloved, try to write to you
Through the senseless deaths of a million troops
I'm waiting, my time is near
And my tears wash away my years
To say in God we trust
Not for this
Oh the death and glory, boys
Not for this
Oh, not for this
Dulce dulce decorum
When I walk, when I see
The haunting flesh where my friends bleed
Death in the face of an enemy
Of a man and boy who was just like me
Now you're not there
All the tears we bled
Cuts you like winter's spring
Can't you feel the pain
And if I could ever sleep again
I know to the end of time I'd hear the screams of pain
Dulce dulce decorum
Dear Mother, I write to you...
Dear Beloved...
edit: and the song itself is a take on a poem from 1917 by wilfred owen :"Dulce et decorum est pro partria mori" which of course means "it is sweet and becoming to die for one's country" translated from the latin ;)
[ 09-02-2001: Message edited by: mrfish ]
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"Some pilots are good
Some pilots are great.
The best of all
Flew the P-38"
Col. Al Griebling (ret), US Army
Edited:
There is a GREAT song called "Casualties" by the group Red Delicious. I cant post it on my web server, Big Brother is watching. Get KAZAA (www.kazaa.com) , napster's succesor (still free) and look it up. Its a song everyone should have.
[ 09-03-2001: Message edited by: Tac ]
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Slayer, eh funked?
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I can't remember the name of it... does anyone know a song in which the chorus begins "..and the band played Waltzing Matilda..."? I THINK (operative word there) that it's about a battalion or other such unit of Australian or New Zealand soldiers returning home.
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;)
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Roses are red
Violets are blue
USA owns all
I hope they dont sue
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Ispar - the song is actually called 'and the Band Played Waltzing Matilda', and while I believe it is a traditional song, it was covered by the Pogues.
Here are the lyrics:
When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said Son
It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the cheers
We sailed off to Gallipoli
How well I remember that terrible day
How the blood stained the sand and the water
And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well
He chased us with bullets, he rained us with shells
And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to Australia
But the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we stopped to bury our slain
We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then we started all over again
Now those that were left, well we tried to survive
In a mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
But around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit
And when I woke up in my hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
Never knew there were worse things than dying
For no more I'll go waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and near
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me
So they collected the cripples, the wounded, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where my legs used to be
And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As they carried us down the gangway
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
Then turned all their faces away
And now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
And I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving old dreams of past glory
And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore
The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, "What are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men answer to the call
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Some day no one will march there at all
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me
And their ghosts may be heard as you pass the Billabong
Who'll come-a-waltzing Matilda with me?
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"The Mustang" a poem by Rude.
Astronauts drink tang
young boys chase poontang
others prefer to gangbang
I just want my Mustang
Thank you very much.
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Speaking of popular Irish-ish music, Dropkick Murphy's have some good stuff about soldiers, etc. Often it is thinly veiled metaphor for something else, but taken literally they are good songs as well.
The Legend of Finn MacCumhail
This mighty soldier
on the eve of the war he waged told his troops of lessons learned from battles fought:
"May your heart grow bolder like an iron--clad brigade"
said this leader to his outnumbered lot.
Known as a hero to all that he knew,
long live the legend of Finn MacCumhail!
The brave fearless leader of the chosen few, long live the legend of Finn MacCumhail!
A Faraway Coast
Here in the trenches the fist of the Beast
For fear of an atmosphere poisened deceased
With a gas mask to keep me-from breathing my death
It's American soil I hope for at best
But the duty I serve can't begin to compare
To my ancestors battles and wars through the years
Though the loneliness strikes like an enemy shell
I pray for my home but still sit here in hell
chorus: Sail away to a place that's unkown
taken away from my friends and my home
to a place they call sacred a place I call hell
I long for that corner I once knew so well
Go to the grind it's all that I have
Work on and on with nothing to show
But a graying face in this dying place
Thats a lock in my solitude
I think of a place on a faraway coast
Where friends are dear and there's reason to toast
A cloudy dark images of a Middle East land
Comes down and wrecks my hopeful land
This one isn't about war, per se, but about men dying before their time... I just like the chorus:
the Curse of a Fallen Soul
So may this round be on the corpse of a dead man
With a toast that tells of a love you never shared
So as we dance on the grave of the misbehaved
Raise your glass! And sing the praise of a fallen soul.