Up at o'four thirty
And down to bed at twenty-two
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.
The trumpet's sound is the call of day
And the call of the trumpet ends the day,
But not the same.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.
The sounds of boots in perfect sync,
Is interrupted in a blink.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.
A battle rages between the groups,
But defeat is near to the troops.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.
Men and boys cry alike,
As no help from allies is in sight.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.
War as it seem is not lifelike,
Instead it causes death and fights.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.
Up at o'four thirty
And down to bed at twenty-two
This is a tale of a mother's lad,
A mother's lad he was.