The War

At a certain Christmas in WW1 the troops on the German side and those on our side met in no-man's-land and played a fun game of football. Afterwards they continued doing what they had come there to do - fight a war. The silliness of it gave me the idea to write this poem:

The First German I Shot After The Game

I pointed it at him as he came on running,
Right at his forehead I pointed the gun,
I then pulled the trigger, the bullet - it hit him
And I watched as he fell down, a heap in the sun.

Then my mate, right beside me, said: "See who you've done for -
The one you just killed with a shot in the head?
'Twas the bloke that we played with, the one who was skillful,
He scored a great goal, now he's lying there dead."

I said: "He's a German, an enemy soldier,
If I hadn't shot him he might have shot me."
"But we played them at soccer and hour ago, mun,
And he scored a great goal, a great goal, din't you see?"

"O' course I did see, mun, o'course I did see him,
I got eyes, mun, as you have, and I saw him die."
"But he doesn't use his now, the poor bloody bleeder,
Face down in the mud here," my mate gave a sigh.

"He's a German, a German, and they en't not human,
They kill little babies and rape as they scream;
Don't you hear what they tell us, they're beasts in disguise, mun?"
But my mate said: "He looked one of us and he played like a dream."

He played like a dream, aye, he played like a dream
Better than us, aye, he moved like a dancer,
Moved like a dancer and scored a great goal.....
And my mate's got a question but I know there's no answer.