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sent in by George Goodenough

Like vengeful angels of destruction,
Borne on armour plated wings,
We swept across the bloodied sand,
To liberate a captive land,
Held hostage in a tyrant's grip,
His soldiers ordered to loot and strip,
The wealth he claimed was his by right,
For leading the arabs in their fight,
Against an age old Persian foe.

His soldiers swore to bury our assault,
For we were weak and with us the fault.
But they never stood a chance,
When faced by our finely sharpened lance,
For we were young with attitude
And won our nation's gratitude,
For the victory was ours,
In a matter of savage, bloody hours.

The cost was low or so we thought,
For few of us fell as we fought,
And yet there was a hidden cost,
In middle age our health we lost,
And paid a heavy, painful price,
For our willing sacrifice.

So now we're old and slow and grey ,
A long time since our rifle was at hand,
Yet here we are still suffering the harm,
From a casual, hasty, jab in the arm,
Administered in a far off foreign land,
The legacy of the bloodied sand.

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