I sit upon my rocking chair and remember those of war
I think of mates and comrades that fell thirty years before

The crackling of the fire, like a spitting Tommy gun
Recalls the news of a previous war that had only just begun

The bloke from down the bakers says we’ll still outnumber them
I only hope he’s got it right for the sake of those brave men

I remember how I felt when they came asking for the names
To fight for King and country – it seemed all just fun and games

I remember how we shipped away across the torrid seas
So I write to you dear Sir in defence of my memories

Your fireplace may warm you but you know nothing of this land
That puts the fire into your heart and a rifle in your hand

Friends at home you may possess, but none are strong and true
Unlike the blokes out on the field who would give their lives for you

Your home cooked meals are pleasing yes, but have no wholesome bite
Like the rations that I lived upon that would give you strength to fight

Your dear old parents may be close advice you’ve come to heed
But what’s better than a letter that gives hope to those who read?

Refreshing as you mentioned are soothing baths at night
I’d rather take the comfort from a rain storm whilst I fight

It is not just experience or adventure that you commend
But the knowledge of the difference you are making in the end

The wounds of war across my face hide tales beyond the grave
But I’d prefer my scared reflection than the handsome one you’ve saved

No man could value life much more than the soldiers from the past
For they once had the power to decide if life should last

So war is not the thing for you dear Sir I have to preach
That if money is all you care for now, please visit Gallipoli beach.