If the Sun doesn't get you
the scorpions will.

There were four of us in a half track and a little way back lay the fifth.

The Sun got him good
roasted and peeled him like a spud.

Tannoy, the radio man was the next one to go, slow like a withering vine,
sounded like static on the line
then he went dead.

Fitzroy, the Sepoy, more of a boy than a man
prayed for a day and then went on his way to whatever heaven it is that Sepoys go.

Bill, a bull of a man from Mill Hill and who spoke with a permanent stutter
uttered his last and I travelled on at half mast
cursing the Sun and the Sand and the hand I'd been dealt.

Felt the scorpion sting as I pulled up and funny thing too
I could swear that the scorpion looked like
Frank Sinatra.

Scars are war's testimonial victory
And Sepoy grandpa flamboyant until his nineties
Had priceless moment of reminiscing
Guns, friends and fought land boundaries-
He knew some Japan, India and Germany-
And for a good part of day he owned stamina for discussing war's heroics-
Though not tantamount when he had been fighting-
Oblivious of the hunger, tea and place he was in
Surprisingly jiffy, he was free from Alzheimer's sin
Scar-mirroring- an honest ally in the win
Face wound acting as a medicine perhaps to produce Acetylcholine.

The news today old boy, puts forth that patterned baldness is a ploy
to crush the memory of the hairy mutineers of 1857's Mutiny Sepoy