A poem found at Easter.




They never went down to the asylum
and thanked the veteran,
who'd been there for 60 years,
because he was so gay.

The convoys to Murmansk,
wanted, bread and peace,
keeps us happy see,
honey bee.


Give us all a mini chocolate nuke,
the feudal lands of a paranoid duke,
all we want is a Mercedes Benz.

The priest in the green stained long johns,
thought it was all a con,
the weather carries on.


But for once shed shopping is ok,
dream the day
and smelly welly farmers,
lost from love, charm us,
why curse the European thingy?

All on a service giro see,
peace becomes thee,
a Steinway yacht,
better than a pack and a rifle,
for our children, a trifle.

The good food at the Trooper,
a rooty toot her.

Nothing becomes one in a ragged war,
than good ale and chuff,
the barley ruff,
Romans wearing a Celt circlet,
love you, just a little bit.

The silver service waiter,
takes a fag break with the new girl,
twitter and twirl,
teenage beauty will not be lost,
to dream and Merlin's moss.

Brummy girls,
a treasured delight,
puts flee the night.

For say what you will,
and you can,
only time is listening,
seed breeze glistening.

It is our role,
to give the beggar's bowl,
a full good sip,
mighty gentle and hip.

pass it on

For their is fresh cut sandwiches for tea,
still free,
common humanity all we be.

The cleaning of the shop windows,
the ringing of the church bell,
a gardens gentle dell,
apples by the well.

Our soldiers from this home,
bright flowers round the throne.

~