Who is that old man looking at me?

All decorated and clothed in musty old clothes

I look at my father, who has a lump in his throat

With a tear in his eye, my father announces to me

That old man, my son, wearing a musty old coat

Is an ANZAC hero who took up arms for you and for me

He fought against men, whose governments were remote

In their efforts to repress our freedoms you see

A bloody war it must have been, so graphically they wrote

They don’t know you, but thanks to them, we’re all free

To live and love, to agree or disagree, to discard or devote

And to change governments through the power of our vote

Either way, the tears that well in my eyes you see

Are for the men who never came home to their loving folk

Look at their gait, my son, so slow, so stiff, please promise me

When they’ve all gone, you’ll celebrate those men, in their musty old coats

‘Cause without them, there would have been many more atrocities

Now wave that damn flag and give a holler, for the men in their musty old coats.

Steve Goldsmith – Copyright (c) April 2010