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Reports from a civil war

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Reports from a civil war

Thursday ninth, I'm holed up in barracks on North street, North St, North St, where am I?
I fell asleep holding your picture so tightly, dearly, to me, who am I?

Don't believe reports from a civil war 'cause most of us here forget what we're fighting for.
If you shoot at trees for this long it gets so that you can't tell an oak from a sycamore.

Sunday twelfth, one of my comrades turned to me, from me, crying who am I?
Putting bullets in all those around he said funny how we trust in appearances.

Don't believe reports from a civil war 'cause most of us here forget what we're fighting for.
If you shoot at trees for this long it gets so that you can't tell an oak from a sycamore.

Wednesday night, waking up drowsy, I'm thinking maybe hell is a hospital.
Later they tell me with no hint of irony that the bullet was stopped by the picture you gave to me. I said…
what I know of these things may amount to little,
but stopping bullets with paper just isn't possible.

So don't believe reports from a civil war 'cause most of us here forget what we're fighting for.
If you shoot at trees for this long it gets so that you can't tell an oak from a sycamore.

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from Wrapped up in a five pound note, released March 24, 2016

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