By Tomas ‘Paddy’ Hamilton

He was just a kid with acne, when he first wore his jungle greens About to learn the hard way,

“Don’t forget me cobber,” the cry rang out from hell that was Fromelles bloody battlefield, where five thousand diggers fell

THERE’S A PAIR OF BOOTS, WITH A DIGGER’S HAT, MOUNTED FOR ALL TO SEE – A SILENT IMMORTAL TRIBUTE, FOR THEY’RE SURE TO OUTLAST ME.

The military has long had mascots, eagles, bulls and sheep, But when parades are over, someone has to sweep, The droppings…

It’s just a battered tea chest, with its’ secrets long secured Within its tired and weathered frame, their future was

I had not long left the service and had so much time on hand, I tried to set up a vegie patch, on my little piece of land.

After 30 years in the RAAF, I thought I’d heard the lot And there are times I’m sure, someone has

In the canyon of Her chapel, She prays there on Her own, The Monarch of our Commonwealth, now She sits alone.

Young Jamie watched the old men, march on every Anzac Day And he wondered why his father, had always stayed

He had so many nicknames, tucker fu&%er and bait layer But when an army marches on its stomach, he is

My shift was nearly over, I’d soon be on my way, The eastern sky would herald in, another Mother’s Day

FOR MANY YEARS I ROSE AT DAWN, TO HONOUR OUR GALLANT DEAD THOSE WHO LEFT OUR NATION’S SHORES, OBLIVIOUS TO

My dearest precious darling it causes me to grieve, This is the only letter I hoped you’d not receive…..

The blood that flowed, on the Western Front, has long since ebbed its’ tide The dust of those who bravely fell, now part of our nation’s pride

I WATCHED THEM SAIL TO HOSTILE SHORES, TO GALIPPOLI’S BLOOD SOAKED SAND OR THE QUAGMIRE OF THE WESTERN FRONT AND

Born in a light house, by Cape Leeuwin’s salty spray, She became her father’s keeper, when her mother passed away.

At 11am the guns were mute, a calm was in the air. After four long years, the dogs of war, were banished from their lair.

I found them lying in the dust, they’d long since lost their glint. Who they had once belonged to, there was not the slightest hint.

They did what they were trained to do, without question or fuss, And the last thing they expected, was to be thrown under the bus

The stench of dope and castor oil, no longer smelt today As small fragile bi-planes, rose above Port Phillip Bay