I haven’t wrote to you since you went to war.
In fact much longer before you started that tour.
So I’ve taken pen, whilst you took sword.
But right now I don’t feel it’s all too mighty.
I’m struggling too much to strike a chord.
And I wonder if over there you even thought you liked me.
Remember when we used to play war with sticks and twigs,
For giddy kiddy kicks and gigs?
I fear I may have made that too fun for you.
Cause it was my imagination your enthusiasm used to tire its legs through.
We used to fight a lot and not just for pretend.
Both of us took too long with toys we’d lend.
In our angsty teens we tore the seams.
And we were both too busy trying to be men to learn to sew.
It was your mum who told me you’d enlisted.
It was for the best you always lacked that discipline she insisted.
And I agreed.
It was my mum that told me about the funeral.
Said your mum wanted me to go with her to meet your coffin still.
And I couldn’t.