My father stands behind my mother;
he guides her hands on his favorite rifle.
Behind them is a weathered shed;
before them, miles of untamed land.

He guides her hands on his favorite rifle,
she stares at it but does not shoot;
before them miles of untamed land
foretell her fate for years to come.

She stares at it but does not shoot.
She does not smile, her resignation
foretells her fate for years to come.
She does not know why she is there.

She does not smile, her resignation
has taken her across the sea;
she does not know why. She is there
with a man and a gun, and the scars of battle

have taken her across the sea,
away from her home. Now she stands
with a man and a gun and the scars of battle.
Will she ever see England again?

Away from her home, now she stands
in smartly pleated pants in a desolate land.
Will she ever see England again?
she ponders, as they hold the rifle.

In smartly pleated pants in a desolate land,
she stands with the man who controls the gun.
She ponders, as they hold the rifle,
waiting for the inevitable blast.

She stands with the man who controls the gun;
behind them is a weathered shed.
Waiting for the inevitable blast,
my father stands behind my mother.