Harry Mayer
Little Jack Duffy went off to war.
In 68 he went back for more.
His stature was slight and his courage immense.
But his bravery and resilience were just a pretense.
His pain was unknown, repressed and unseen.
Seeking solace in bottles and drugs was his thing.
All the psychiatrists, doctors and men
couldn’t make little Jack better again.
A life in the Navy was all that he knew,
and when it came to an end, he was dour and blue.
Retired, alone, with a bottle of rum.
Last night Little Jack Duffy swallowed his gun.