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Old Scottie’s got a cob on
Can’t find his favourite chair
Just back from a mini reunion
And he can’t find it anywhere. 
Not yet got the nerve to tell him
It went the middle of last week,
Mike gave it to a charity shop
When he had a fit of pique.

Martin’s sat quietly crying,
Had his recurring nightmare
Of serving back in Bosnia 
And he’s in a fit of despair.
Almost time to open the Drop-In.
There’s no cow juice in the fridge.
The centre without milk is like
A scene from Pork Chop  Ridge.

Thirty seven coffees yesterday
And not a single one was  black.
I’ve  sent somebody to the shop
But they’ve  not yet arrived  back.
The centre for broken soldiers
And I’m the Duty Office nerd,
Just  whinging and ing 
This morning is all I’ve  heard.

They’re all physically fit but
Their wounds are concealed
It’s very unlikely some of them 
Will ever be fully mentally healed.
Always the chance of a flashback,
An attack of doubt and fear,
And it can bring some relief 
When a fellow veteran is near.
 
They’ve come back with the milk, 
The mugs  are lined up and clean,
Thanks be to the man who invented 
The essential dish washing machine
It’s almost Drop-In time,
The Duty Counsellor is on his way,
Noel and Gordon are at the door,
Time  to start another manic day.

Old Scottie calmed down
Said he  didn’t  really care
The Counsellor brought Martin
Out of his Bosnia nightmare.
The mugs all washed and clean
All ready  for opening next day
The Drop-in’s locked and closed
Time for home and I’m on my way.

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