The Shell-Maker (4-8-4-8)

Four hours there on a rickety push-bike,
eight more working on the factory floor,
another four hours to pedal back home,
then eight hours rest before starting again.

For nearly ten years, the same old routine.
A horrible global war come and gone,
leaves these broken men at home forgotten.
Unfit for service, unfit for glory.

No lavish parades in their memory,
a mere footnote in the history books.
Without their skilled hands there would be nothing.
Both sides offer rations for hard labour.

Their feet never touched down on foreign soil,
though their tin can artillery sure did.
Blast after unappreciated blast,
uncaring, no thought of who supplied them.

Some deaf, some blind, some just too plain simple,
all unified by their faults and failings.
Not deemed fit enough to be gun fodder.
Many felt unfit for life afterwards.

Don't forget their heavy contributions,
just because these folk weren't fired upon.
Men and women left at home together,
not soldiers but true battlers all the same.

We salute all those weary shell-makers,
and those who held very similar roles.
True blue war heroes forgotten by time,
they fought hard to live, not lived hard to fight.