The tin soldiers in such a perfect line,
Marched in order up and down,
Their faces gleamed and their uniforms fine,
They would march into war,
Then they always marched back,
Carrying their new found glory,
On their shoulders with their ration sack,
They obediently followed their orders,
Down to the very last note,
Their peaceful countries had designed,
But some stranger had wrote,
They had grown up together,
Trained, worked and served,
Their brotherhood had always been sacred,
Through the year, they had preserved,
Marching into war,
And always marching back,
Carrying their new found glory,
On their shoulders with their ration sack,
Always with each other,
Always doing what they were told,
Except for one single time,
The story will unfold,
They had marched into war,
Right in the middle of a battle,
They had kept up the fort,
One-minded like cattle,
Except for just one man,
Who looked around and saw,
The destruction they had caused,
The lives lost from the bullet roar,
The young and the innocent,
Who never ever deserved,
The carnage and the death,
Because they had found some nerve,
To stand up to the big guys,
And rule their country their own way,
Find peace in their land,
And finally have their freedom and say,
And this one solider knew,
Their plan for peace flaw,
Fighting is not the way to harmony,
And he realised when he saw,
One man stood up,
No longer a soldier and would have his final say,
In the surroundings of misery,
Pain, anger and decay,
Each soldier has a family,
But they don’t go to war,
Nobody seems to see them there,
And how they made the man’s core,
Nobody saw the family, who would suffer,
Mourn the man’s passing and cry,
How his children would weep,
And the sound his wife would miserably sigh,
He had seen the effects of war,
The stink and the rot,
For standing up for the little man,
Out rang one shot,
There he fell,
In the cold, wet mud,
Filled with tears and anger,
Sadness and blood,
He had dared to speak,
His heart no longer tin,
To show his comrades their wrong,
Their damage and their sin,
There he had stood,
And spoke to the few,
Who surrounded him in the battle,
Both enemy and crew,
And one had rejected what was said,
Without a thought he raised his gun,
And fired on the man of flesh,
Who was stopping their fun,
A comrade in arms,
A friend and a mate,
This was what was decided,
This was their cruel fate,
Their life to the end,
The tin soldiers in such a perfect line,
Marched in order up and down,
Their faces gleamed and their uniforms fine,
They would march into war,
Then they always marched back,
Forever carrying their guilt,
On their shoulders with their ration sack.