Toy Soldier

Once, you dreamed of a life unlived as yet,

with a chest full of medals clean and bright,

for a hero’s welcome home from the fight.

Dreams of days as the dashing young cadet

training up to go forth against the threat…

those dreams of glory in youth’s golden light

dread nightmares with the coming of the night.

Now the fear that the worst has not been met…

He’s all alone where others went to die,

with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

One last salute to friends from days gone by,

struggling to hold onto his composure.

Painted heroes made of tin never cry—

there he stands: Just another toy soldier.

There he stands! Just another toy soldier,

one of many in the shop's window drawn,

but right away you knew he was the one!

Every boy needs a hero to be bolder,

he was yours, your very own tin soldier,

the only Christmas present you could want!

While your father, sad and thoughtful, looked on

knowing what you’ll be when you are older.

Little boy, playing readily with war

not knowing of the dread oncoming gauntlet,

all grown up in the midst of death and horror

doing things that he hopes he will forget.

No turning back from that fraught, bloody shore,

once you dreamed of a life unlived as yet.

Once you dreamed of a life unlived as yet

those dreams grew grand with each heroic tale

of knights rescuing maidens fair and pale,

battling dragons upon their kingdoms set,

and catching monsters in their golden nets!

Every page another wondrous detail

of the fancy of quests and holy grails,

of round tables, and honor, and respect!

Now it’s orders and insidious deeds,

and reprehensibility contrite,

for in his heart he’s known darkest defeat.

At his homecoming there’ll be no delight.

No brave hero at that station to meet

with a chest full of medals clean and bright.

With a chest full of medals clean and bright,

little hero made of tin to withstand

his march across dark and foreign lands

where dragons live in caves all affright!

Tin soldier now a brave crusading knight

on adventures of imagination grand

with shining armies at his sole command!

Until your father tells you, ‘Say goodnight.’

But the consequence of war is paid in blood,

and not his own, though he would wish it right—

wish to be borne off by the Mekong’s flood.

Another sad goodbye to say tonight,

another coffin waiting in the mud

for a hero’s welcome home from the fight.

For a hero’s welcome home from the fight,

you’ve fought your battle! Bloodied but you won!

Your bullies now defeated, great deeds done!

‘Twas almost worth the scolding comes forthright.

But you have got your own grave wrongs to right,

and dreams of the great songs that will be sung

when you and your tin soldier weren’t outdone!

Though you were frightened, fear was not your blight!

Little boy thinking he’ll break fear’s regime

with each terror faced. But night brings its regrets.

And in those nightmares where his demons teem

from out the rage of war, there he is left

wishing to trade his nightmares for those dreams…

Dreams of days as the dashing young cadet.

Dreams of days as the dashing young cadet

fill your young mind, as with your wooden sword

you terrorize the rabbits in your yard!

One day a navy man, the next a pirate

with an eye patch, a parrot, and a musket

made of a splintered length of extra board;

by young imagination thence restored

into a horse to ride into the sunset!

Sweet days of youth, the best of which are past,

now wooden swords have become bayonets.

His dreams of innocence brutally dashed

by days in blistered heat, by bugs beset.

This wasn’t how he thought the tale would last,

training up to go forth against the threat.

Training up to go forth against the threat

you march around your yard, pup at your heels,

nipping and barking its canine appeals.

With scraps on your shoulders for epaulettes

and a tin pot on your head for your helmet!

Then laughing all around, delighted squeals,

as the pup around himself, excited wheels,

chasing his tail with all his joyous merit!

He thinks of that dog back home sometimes,

sweet little thing to never growl or bite.

And wonders about the ones they’ll leave behind—

faithful warriors... thrown away out of sight.

And he wishes for a world that he can’t find:

Those dreams of glory in youth’s golden light.

Those dreams of glory in youth’s golden light

with your tin soldier leading you the way

mould every moment of your happy play,

without a thought for regret or hindsight.

In childhood’s mind there’s naught but black and white

and heroes who will always save the day.

E’en when the sun from out the sky allays

and you’re to bed, he’ll guard you from all fright!

Where now that hero to stand guard out here

when the nights seem so long? The dark invites

anything that from out those trees appears—

he’s faced it all. Through hell and back survived.

Though he’s not afraid, he has learned to fear

dread nightmares with the coming of the night.

Dread nightmares with the coming of the night

are easily cast off by dawn’s display

when the monsters that through your mind convey

are defeated by the glow of your nightlight.

And the soldier that at your side abides,

for no nightmare can against him yet assay.

Brave tin soldier, who’ll chase all those fears away!

For everything that’s wrong, he’ll make it right!

But there are some things that are always wrong,

and no matter what he does, he won’t forget

the orders that he followed right along,

and how they came to nothing but regret,

and how those orders keep coming along...

Now the fear that the worst has not been met.

Now the fear that the worst has not been met

plagues the soldier with all that he abhors.

He’s killed, and he’s been wounded, but there’s more—

more to come, more to do, more to expect.

Every bomb that drops, drops on him direct.

There’s nothing he can do to answer for

the things he’s done. This was the life he swore

for honor, but his honor he neglects.

Little boy, dream of honor while you can!

Remember all those days that fleeting fly.

Take that tin soldier firmly by the hand,

hold on to that! You’ve not long to defy

The test of time. For there the soldier stands,

He’s all alone where others went to die.

He’s all alone where others went to die,

the last survivor of a bitter war,

left wondering what he was fighting for

and was it worth the bloody sacrifice?

So many hundred thousand wasted lives…

and now it’s over, where can he restore?

There is no home can hold him anymore,

no place left for the soldier still alive.

Little boy, reading tales of adventure

imagining yourself as your tin soldier

striding forth into the wider world to venture!

You’ll get there soon enough when you are older.

All that waits you in that morrow is censure...

with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

With the weight of the world on his shoulders

lighter still than the weight of all his sins,

yet he prays hoping he can be forgiven

for the things he has done to his brothers.

Each face once dead looks like all the others.

But it all came to nothing in the end.

There’s a special place in Hell waits for him,

burning bright, for another tin soldier.

Little boy, golden head bent down in prayer

as you kneel with your mother at your side,

remembering your father brave and fair

who for his nation proudly lived! And died.

Another soldier on his own out there,

one last salute to friends from days gone by.

One last salute to friends from days gone by,

he’ll raise his glass and offer them a toast

remembering how they would brag and boast

not knowing what was coming from on high;

that they would never make it home, to die

in a foreign land on a foreign coast.

But he’s the one who’s left living a ghost,

and if he could, he’d join them thereby.

Little boy still dreaming of glories won,

guard your dreams that innocence be bolstered!

hold onto these sweet days lived in the sun

for far too soon these sweet days will be over.

He’s just another soldier, someone’s son,

Struggling to hold onto his composure.

Struggling to hold onto his composure,

to keep the fire of rage inside him hot,

for it’s the only thing left that he’s got

to hold him up, to keep him straight and sober

now that the battle’s done… and it’s all over?

He never found the glory that he sought.

What else has he to live for now he’s not

just another blank and painted tin soldier?

Little boy, with your toys playing hero,

standing in your father’s shoes, dreaming nigh,

dreaming of the hero in the mirror!

Remember him, you’ll be there by-and-by.

Hurry not toward that waiting sorrow.

Painted heroes made of tin never cry.

Painted heroes made of tin never cry,

not even when he’s left to bear the cost

of death and blame, and every tragic loss.

There are no tears left for his burning eyes,

nor heroes left, for every hero died.

And that’s the truth that he can’t bear to cross,

to know that in the end, ‘twas he that lost.

The hero in the mirror is a lie.

Little boy, do not wish your boyhood gone,

there are crosses to be borne when you are older.

Cherish every moment of this golden dawn,

cherish every friendship now before it’s over!

All lined up in the empty echelon,

There he stands, just another toy soldier.