His name was Uncle Jack
He complained about his back
And smelled of liniment and ginger
He sat me on his knee when I was only three
And told me tales of the royal house of Windsor
The kings they eat tea and buns
And the Generals load the guns
For lowly men like Uncle Jack to fire
So come and sit by me although you’re only three
And I’ll sing you hymns you won’t hear from any choir
I was just six and a score
When I was called to that bloody war
To kill the evil Hun or die trying
Buried in the mud and the gas shells they did thud
Around me was the constant wailing of the dying
On one fateful autumn day
In our trench we all did lay
When I heard our captain yell something at me
Look out across the wire where the Germans now do fire
And tell me brave Jack what do you see?
I stared out across the land
And among the filthy blood and sand
I saw my best friend Davey shot and dying
Without a second thought I climbed into no man’s land
And crawled to where poor Davey was now lying
I grabbed his webbing belt in vain
And dragged him slowly back again
But sniper’s bullet suddenly found me out
I dropped poor wounded Davey to the ground
And in the battle noise no-one could hear us shout
So little Nicky listen to your Uncle Jack
This long scar upon my back
Was not won for the flippin’ king
Or the war mongers back at home
But bought by my pal Davey and death’s deadly sting
So take this dish of medals
And buy a new bicycle with pedals
And cycle carefully down to your local toy shop
Tell the folks you see to listen close to me
This bloody game they all call war just has to stop
The years they all expired
And Uncle Jack grew old and tired
But he always found the time to talk to me
My older brother Burnet died of gastro enteric fever
And the poor lad hadn’t yet reached thirty-three
He smelled of gangrene and rot
And his bowels they would not stop
Until poor Burnet’s short life was no more
His face eaten away with screams of pain
Now buried in the drain of the earth on a foreign shore
There is no sense in war
The generals always knew the score
While red poppies tell tales of death and glory
But it wasn’t like that then and isn’t now
Death, mud, blood and disease are the real story
No Time to Think 