| In my youth, I played at trains: now all steam is gone
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| In my dreams, brief shelter from the rain
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| I try to catch the fireglow…
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| With Dinky Toys, I thought that I was Stirling
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| With cricket bat, I saw myself as Peter May;
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| Now, with all these images returning
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| I wonder who I am today?
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| As a child, I refought the war
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| With plastic planes and imagination:
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| I sank Tirpitz, blew up the Mohne dam, all these and more
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| I was the saviour of the Nation!
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| Oh! |
| To be the captain of a ship of war!
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| The pilot of a Tempest or a York!
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| To hold my trench against the Panzer Korps
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| Instead of simply being one who talks
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| And reminisces of his fantasies
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| As though life was nothing but to lose…
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| These only antecede the knowledge that, eventually
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| He must choose
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| It’s a hallmark of adulthood
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| That our options diminish
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| As our faculties for choice increase
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| Till we choose everything and nothing
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| Too late, at the finish
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| In my youth, I held belief: my faith and thought were strong
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| But now I’m stripped of every leaf
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| And it robs me of the sight of right and wrong
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| Oh! |
| To be the son of Che Guevara!
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| One unit in the serried ranks of black!
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| A Papist or an Orangeman, a eunuch…
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| Then doubt would never cast the dagger in my back
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| Oh! |
| To be King John or Douglas Bader
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| Humphrey Bogart or Victor Mature!
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| Which one is false and easy
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| Which one harder?
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| Of that
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| Of this
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| Of me
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| I’m really not too sure |