Poppy Day

We'll remember when that wreath is just a crown of thorns to drape

around your helmet - hide out anywhere at all. We'll remember when

you're no more than a poem on a grave - a sideline for the guy who

writes the birthday cards but never signs his name. He's got your

number, feels your pain... though you're smiling from the mantel-piece

and you've got your rifle trained. It's pointing at the T.V. Shall

we tell you when to fire? There's a programme we all hate... it's not

a late show so you won't be tired. We remember how you loved the war

films, and hid behind the sofa throwing balls of silver paper. We

remember. We remember. We've got our poppies on. We hear the clock

chime out eleven. We remember, we remember it's Poppy Day. (You

shall not grow old!)