Poem - The Parade

Swaying kilts and swinging arms,
Skirling bagpipes, Beating drums,
We're marching on parade.
With measured beat
Of soldiers feet,
Spit and polish and tunics neat,
We give the passers-by a treat
When we are on parade.

Swaying kilts and swinging arms,
We're marching on parade.
Our sweethearts wave,
The know we're brave,
We are the sons our mothers gave,
We do not think of soldiers graves,
When we are on parade.

Skirling bagpipes, beating drums,
At last we reach the church.

Thou shalt not kill,
Least not until,
The priest has blessed the guns.

Skirling bagpipes, beating drums,
Mud and blood and battles won.
It was kill him Jack - Bayonet or gun,
We wondered what we've all become,
The world's no different - just the same,
So was the killing all in vain?

Sid Catt