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Anzac Day will soon be here
Thoughts of courage and of fear
Men who fought across the sea
Awfully glad it wasn't me
Dad was gone for several years
Never saw my mother's tears
She was brave when I was three
Awfully glad it wasn't me
Letters home already read
By Sergeant Major's evil head
He'd snigger at the words so kind
To wives and children left behind
They suffered hardship, misery
Awfully glad it wasn't me
Occasionally back home he'd tell
Tales of unremitting hell . . . . . .
A comrade jostled in the gloom
Struggled just to make some room
A gre-nade in the trench had hit
Threw himself on top of it
Blew himself to bits its true
Gave himself to save a few
He was brave and we were free
Awfully glad it wasn't me
All of those have passed away
My thoughts of them are rare today
But somewhere, still, they can't agree
They're killing those who cannot flee
Awfully glad it isn't me
Froda
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