In bars, parties, staff rooms I seem
To find myself on a soapbox
I don't particularly own
And the majority is against me
And those in accord are the worst
Kind of slow-brained moron
Such that I'd rather be left on my lonesome

But that doesn't shake my faith.

When they made us soldiers
And sent us back to work
I recalled the story of Davy
A kid from way back in youth
Who also told of the part-timer's lot
And in Bosnia he'd cut in half
A man with his SA80.

Well but he was a liar, through and through.

A liar who claimed to be queer
And yet nailed my girlfriend
Behind my back, and worked in Wimpy
And had never even seen a gun
and who one day tied me up
On the school field out back
To demonstrate his mastery of the art of knots

And I told the story of Davy to my colleague with the nice legs.

And me I've not yet fired in truth
And I'm sitting here
In the staffroom drinking tea
And marking and wondering when
My time'll come to quit
This dusty silence
And come to the promised land

Where my faith will indeed be shaken.

I'm told there's those what can't be shook
And I'm sure there's others
Will flipflop in an instant
And then there's them
Who just don't give a nut sack
And then me, put me, like the majority,
Somewhere between extremes,

A kid with what he believes.

So yes I'll go and have my fragile stance
Smacked right fair out of me.
There may not be no bullets with
Names carved in, VBIEDs of destiny
And there's nothing lying in wait for me,
Except, perhaps, uncertainty
But then I'm still marking,

Waiting.

So then there's Davy who probably threw
His body onto grenades
Plunged his knife between shoulder blades
Who watched children burn
After airstikes he'd called in
And who died, I'm told, some months ago alone
In vomit and with the TV on.