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An Obituary printed in the London Times.....!

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense ,
who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure
how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic
red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;

- Why the early bird gets the worm;

- Life isn't always fair;

- And maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing
regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual
harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened  his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent
to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a
student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death,-by his parents, Truth and Trust,
-by his wife, Discretion,
-by his daughter, Responsibility,
-and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 5 stepbrothers;
- I Know My Rights
- I Want It Now
- Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim
Pay me for Doing Nothing

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the majority and do

it seems a blog needs just words..but this is a web page and rightly places in context the blog from 6 years ago - lest we forget the cost of our freedom.




Its funny when first you shoot a target, it has no personality, no reality. But what when you see eye to eye the life to be eliminated?. Is there ever a good enough reason?. Does one glory in it?..of course not, but I ask you if the choice is them or you? to fight for your way of life? for your children?..would you not also say yes? and do what you must do? To war or not to war When first I stooped to kill the figure so far away A stick upon the hill My aim ne'er went astray When next it was my job to end a persons time T'was done with not a sob Just another peg on a line But what when you see look straight into their eyes can it really be? I must terminate their sighs? To feel the blade go in turn, twist and then withdraw why felt it such a sin against some unknown law down my cheek ran a tear so I could barely see I knew it must be done was either him or me Will I always remember? can I not forget the pain of that september Start of my lifetime debt was there any choice? could I have shouted no? I could not use my voice I could not be that slow Is there no regret? A wish it hadnt been? Oh yes but dont you fret It wasnt even seen. If I could make a bid? would I do encore? yes, for so I did yes I would for sure. Yes for our freedom yes for my kids life no to blackened serfdom no to evils strife. Caelwyn February 2007 Copyright Retained
Surely the words below although written so long ago have much reason in them. Do we fight because we hate th e other?...no mostly its out of love. Love of our country, our way of life and the freedom to live it and to allow for a world where our children may also live This is No Case of Petty Right or Wrong This is no case of petty right or wrong That politicians or philosophers Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers. Beside my hate for one fat patriot My hatred of the Kaiser is love true:-- A kind of god he is, banging a gong. But I have not to choose between the two, Or between justice and injustice. Dinned With war and argument I read no more Than in the storm smoking along the wind Athwart the wood. Two witches' cauldrons roar. From one the weather shall rise clear and gay; Out of the other an England beautiful And like her mother that died yesterday. Little I know or care if, being dull, I shall miss something that historians Can rake out of the ashes when perchance The phoenix broods serene above their ken. But with the best and meanest Englishmen I am one in crying, God save England, lest We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed. The ages made her that made us from dust: She is all we know and live by, and we trust She is good and must endure, loving her so: And as we love ourselves we hate her foe. Edward Thomas
Another poem by that great war poet Wilfred Owen, it is an honour to fight for ones country an d beliefs..there is in my mind no honour in death, just the waste of a brave person. If death comes from fighting..then is the death honourable. There is no honour in tearing apart those who put their beliefs and love for home and country from the peace of your easy chair. There is no honour in being a fireside critic. On the contrary..there is nothing but dishonour and shame for those who with no experience or the slightest wish to acknowledge the sacrifice of others in order that the dishonoured can exult in their dishonourable activities. WILFRED OWEN Dulce et Decorum Est - best known poem of the First World War DULCE ET DECORUM EST Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4 Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind. Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . . Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13 To children ardent14 for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.15 8 October 1917 - March, 1918 1 DULCE ET DECORUM EST - the first words of a Latin saying (taken from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country. In other words, it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country
Siegfried Sassoon was another war poet. From a gentle family he was also a soldier, who fought in the war. His words perhaps have a poignancy because of that. Whoever thinks that soldiers want to go to war, to kill, to maim?. They are like us, humans who nevertheless put themselves forward so that we may enjoy freedom. Before the soldier is lambasted ...think a little, even you who seem to take great delight in condemnation...from the comfort of you r fireside chair, your social security/welfare cheque, from the freedom so dearly bought for us by those you so easily condemn. First look upon your own reflection before you cast even a pebble or mote of sand. Attack (from The Old Huntsman) AT dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop! Siegfried Sassoon
Tell me, what greater love has a person than that they lay down their life for home and country. The poetry is by Wilfred Owen, written about what was called the Great War. There is no greatness in war, only in the people that go there to ensure our freedom and our liberty. Wilfred was a Brit, writing mostly about what he saw, but these words relate to any warrior (male or female) of any country who go out there and put their lives on the line...for whom?..for us. We live in times where ordinary warfare has been in part replaced by terrorism, but this is just war of another kind, cowardly, dastardly hiding in anonymity. Destroying civilians, people who are going about their every day business. Women, men, children, no respect for age, sex or belief. I give my thanks, small though they be fo rthose who still stand up and put themselves in the front line in order that I and my children may live in a world. Comments welcome. (PS: yes, I am ex military and from a family proud to have fought for generations in any way requested for country and kin). Greater Love Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! Your slender attitude Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care; Till the fierce Love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. Your voice sings not so soft, -- Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft, -- Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom none now hear Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. Heart, you were never hot, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail: Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not. Wilfred Owen
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