Can you hear the shuffle of boots?
Old men in polyester suits
Ties like regimental colours flying
Who they are I do not know
I just watch them row upon row
Every single one of them is crying
They're marching along the old dirt track
Looking up ahead, never looking back
Scared they'll catch the eye of some Medusa.
Here they are now one, two, three
Four and five and more and many
Six and seven, eight and nine
Here they come in a long, long line
Count a dozen, count a score
There might be a hundred more
Can you hear the clatter of boots?
Kits and packs and khaki suits
And ragged regimental colours flying
Swallowed whole by the cold steel rain
Just a little fresh blood in the serpent's veins
It's a sharp shrill whistle call to attack
And they're running up ahead, and they're never coming back
Caught right in the eye of some Medusa
Here they are
Can you hear the concrete clicking
And the telephones bawling and the clocks all ticking
And the red ink spilling on the embers
No one cares, no one remembers
Names like footsteps chiselled in stone
Row upon row, row upon row, row upon row, row upon row
Here they are
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