The knock

I'm waiting for the knock to come,

the knock upon my door,

I'm waiting for the knock to come,

that'll drop me to the floor.

Our only son is twenty-one,

a bit like me, but bolder,

he's known since he was ten years old,

he was going to be a soldier.

He joined up, at seventeen,

from schoolboy to a man,

it wasn't what I wanted,

but I helped the best I can.

Now he's been gone for sixty days,

I heard from him last week,

the phone, it rang at half past six,

it threw me from my seat.

He said that he was doing well,

and me, don't fret or worry,

but he's been gone for sixty days,

I wish his leave would hurry.

Now he's in the middle east,

with heat and sun and sand,

I reach out in my sleep at night,

I hope to grab his hand,

and bring him home, safe and sound,

to sit with me once more,

and hope that he will see the end,

of, this bloody war.

I'm waiting for the knock to come,

two men in darkened suits,

to bring the saddest news of all,

dressed up with shiny boots.

They tell me that they never phone,

but call and treat you well,

and you never see their like again,

with the bad news, that they tell.

I'm waiting for the knock to come,

the knock upon my door,

I'm waiting for the knock to come,

and I'll wait for evermore.