He Played Waltzing Matilda
You made me think the sad thoughts,
the broken thoughts of broken bodies
rolled around in battered chairs
down the middle of George Street
with the crowds waving the flags I hate.
Those broken bodies were once whole
and the march was right down to the quay,
and the minds that now are broken too
were full of glorious dreams.
There was no cause for pity
and there was no cause for fear;
there was no cause to doubt,
they were fighting the glorious fight
to keep our country strong and free.
When the ship was boarded
and the crowds went home
and the band stopped playing Waltzing Matilda
and the ship sailed past the heads
rocking like a giant cork,
that’s when the lights went out
and down came the night
with its determined dreams of hope and glory
and the mateship began that’d last though life.
There was no cause to think of mud
and still no cause for fear.
There was no cause to need your mates
in lonely fields filled with broken men,
and there was no cause to think of blood.
When the boat sailed in, close to the beach,
the waves were crashing down.
The packs were slung in lockers,
the guns were safe in hand.
While making it to the shoreline
through the salty, smashing sea,
I think O’Rielly drowned, but I think
he was actually shot. We made it to the beach
while men just like us tried to kill us from the hill.
This was no time for blinding fear,
this was no time for thoughts of blood;
there was no concern for muddy boots
as they stormed into the blazing guns.
But at least no one got left behind.
When it was all done, with broken bodies
and broken hearts and the soldiers were safe on board,
they sailed home, their job was done.
When some hobbled down the gangplank
and others were wheeled in chairs
in the sight of a shocked and guilty crowd
that hid behind a desire to turn their backs
and not to see it, not to even care.
But the band still played Waltzing Matilda
and the crowd still held their flags.
This was the time for muddied hearts,
the time for painful clarity,
the time for broken families,
and for abandoned, broken men
to hold their shocked and grieving wives.
Every year we remember again;
every war we do it again;
every march we forget the blood
and remember only the glory
of yet another pointless war,
to the tune of Waltzing Matilda.
Peter Cartwright
November 2017
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