The Soldier

A soldier's tale about young Grover, Though black, his duty called him over, He survived the Front's futility, Came home after 1918, With his medals for bravery, With valour, he beat the Hun, Back here, society did him shun, He came home, no man's slave, Old comrades did not even wave, As he marched in the Anzac Parade, To them, he was an affront, Though he battled on the Western Front, He learnt that there was no change, Their attitudes seemed very strange, With him, they did not hob nob, He had no hope of landing a job, So, he sold his medals for grog from the pub, Died alone, with his libation of love, He had fought with such bravery, But could not survive this bigotry, Died under a bridge, his short life over, Sad little tale, a soldier called Grover.