Musings of a Jock in Afghanistan, (A Kipling Parody)
It’s not cool when you’re lying cold and wet in your Afghan bivvy,
knowing your life is dependent on an MOD civvy.
When your body armour’s a share, one set between three,
And the firefights are brutal not like those on TV.
You check with care, your pal, your weapon then look to your wit,
As you tread in the footprints of earlier Jocks deeper in the sh*t.
When your machine gun has jammed and you’re down to one round,
then the faith that you’d lost is speedily re-found.
When the Taliban fighters are close to the fort,
And you pray that friendly shelling doesn’t fall a bit short.
Buddy up tae Jock Tamson, like he’s one of your brood,
And fight off the Taliban as you know all jocks should.
Your pay just doesn’t cover your needs or your wants,
But you are required just to stand and absorb Taliban taunts.
Neither General’s or civvy’s can do nowt to amend,
Except to ensure you’re in a place you can’t spend.
Paid three fifty an hour for your time in the Afghani cage,
And you supposed to be happy it’s the minimum wage.
And knowing your wife Mary is at home alone in your quarter
Walls running with damp and the roof leaking water
Your bairns miss the treasured warmth of their hero, their dad,
They’re foregoing the loving childhood that they should have had.
But you dream that one day it will change and as each day it goes by,
you just sit there, with wonder as you see the pigs fly.
You’re treated just like the Jock’s of before a life in the mud, dust and ditch,
But you’ll march and you’ll fight, and you’ll drink and you’ll bitch.
No matter the war, Iraqi, Afghan, Zulu, Fritz or the Boer,
Jocks will fight on ‘til the battle is over.
Mistreated and judged no better than fodder, the Jock’s soldier on,
but ponder how long Scots will respond to the MOD con.