My friends and I are sitting in this bombed out house
Our rifles rest against the wall
No lamp is lit
As daylight fades the little window frames the moon
We smoke, we read, we write a letter home
We don't dwell on horrors past
Nor on what is yet to come

                                                I won't let my guts gush out
                                                Into foreign mud
                                                Nor die in no man's land alone
                                                I want to make it back to you
                                                I want to make it home

We're winning now, they're on the run
Supplies cut off, they're desperate
They've suffered even more than us
But we have to keep the pressure up
One thing I've learned while I've been here
Don't underestimate the ***

                                                     I've been here such a long time now
                                                     Seen so many good men die
                                                     Killed a good few too
                                                     I know that danger still surrounds us
                                                     Even now I might not make it through

I just need to carry on
Hold on to my life
You know that when I make it back to you
Soon we will be man and wife

                                                      Jack

You partied hard when you could
Gold mini skirt and heels
But underneath the glamour
Were guts and nerves of steel

Home was fun and jolly japes
A lively social whirl
But work was war zones, scary scrapes
For our brave reporter girl

You found yourself in Libya
Met the mad dog's stare
He liked you, it was a feather in your cap
You made your name out there

Sri Lanka's where you lost an eye
To shrapnel flying in the dark
They thought you were a Tamil Tiger
Hiding in the grass

Back home someone told you off for smoking
Quick came your reply
Don't concern yourself, I promise you
That's not how I'll die

In Chechnya you made it out
Escaping with your life
As mortars fell you legged it
Eight days over mountain snow and ice

East Timor was your finest hour
Fifteen hundred people protected by too few
You refused to leave, they were saved
That was down to you

Luck ran out in Syria
You feared another massacre, tried to warn the world
So the shells once more homed in on you
And killed our brave reporter girl

Excuse me m'am, I happen to be...
A warden of the dog poo variety...
As you walked along by me
Your dog was seen to poo and ***.
It's not allowed in such a place
To show such scant regard for form and grace.
It's not acceptable and not allowed.
The charge for this is fifty pounds.
Thank you.
Good day.

Begun in haste and desperation
Very soon we parted

You told your friends what a ***
I told mine I had won

It was the perfect parting to a union
We never should have started

The sprinting sprite was wearing stripes
Bespectacled in black and white
He offered up some hushed advice
On how to live my life

I said be gone and don't come back
Don't dare to tell me how
The wisdom to advise you lack
I've done alright till now

This majestic mountain invites us up to play
Above the clouds and valley haze
We own it for a day

Rising in the gondola, cables taking strain
Bronzed faces still and quiet
Studying terrain

Alpine chough and ptarmigan are seen from time to time
But alpine buzz is really
What we have in mind

A pack of snowboards hurtles by doing what they dare
A whiff of marijuana
Lingers in the air

Some are here for night-life, drunk in bed by three
Not in search of apres
During's good for me

The weather's right, tons of snow
Come on, come on, we've got to go!

Into the wide, unmeasured, lonely skies
Beyond this dark, confining world he winds
To keep his watch; on moon-tipped wings he flies
O'er cliffs of cloud, and nature's star-lit climes
Above this England, gashed with iron scars,
And o'er the sea with white-capped shining waves,
He passes ramparts, washed with foam of stars,
And in curls of cloudlets loose he laves
To be up there, amidst that heavenly band,
It is his duty, and his life, his boon;
No hand can hold him to the steadfast land
When duty calls, through rays of a Bomber's Moon
When he returns, that golden host will ring,
And he'll be with his comrades, flying wing to wing.