His name was Sergeant Black

A new beginning, the toil, of the soil
i cry in anguish, this torrid, this hurt, this turmoil
this muck and destruction, the grave diggers spade
my friend was cremated today, his spirit laid and displayed.
although i dont believe in god, his spirit exists within me
a caustic traveler dancing the tango for all the spirits to see
he  typed the words on the soul, of my tattooed world war two back
I remember, recall, the tank drivers name of sergeant Black.
A couple of degrees, the turret swung left, and fired
the Nazi opposition tank, set on flame, and died
my lady and baby, back home, dreamt of my forgiveness medals
i walked in the autumn park, next door, i put the baby on the horses saddles
and then i awoke, from this dream, i abstained
the memory of my loved one delved in a difference disdained.
We cried in the foxholes, we wept in the mud
because we danced in the tents and we became, because we could
whisky hugging, on the cold, winter tales ,of the she, of the should
He died in the middle, of the realistic trial of blood
There was a time of absolution, we cried like dogs on fire
our fur in troubled resolution, we bowed unto our sire
the bombs drove down our sodden broken crack
his name was an officer crying, his name was sergeant Black.