ChatterBank0 min ago
poem so apt
4 Answers
A young girl sat on her grandfather’s knee
Asking him to explain the poppy appeal, please,
Why the flower grandpa?
Why the men sat in uniform with boxes and buckets balanced on there knees?
The old soldier dressed in a smart jacket, beret, and tie looking so neat?
Why do they march grandpa?
And hold a 2 minute silence, please?
Why the monuments of stone, steal and wood?
With names of so many there to see?
The Grandpa looked down on her head and placed a kiss,
Now my dear he said,
The flowers we use because they grew in the fields of Flander’s,
Where young men who fell for our freedom,
And died with no known grave to be seen,
The men who sell the poppies are those who lived,
Honouring the memory of there friends who fell for freedom.
They march on the Sunday my dear to give thanks,
For those lives of there friends who they were never again to see.
You see my dear, those that died do not grow old,
Nor time weary them as it does me.
The silence we hold, for a moment silent prayer.
To give thanks for the freedom they shall not share.
We grow old my dear,
And the names fade from our memory,
Not many live now who can give character to the name,
Except the dusty records,
Of service and there gallantry.
My dear there are those, he said, who do not honour the dead,
Her little eyes grew wide at the thought,
They trash the monuments to the fallen
Desecrating there graves,
Stealing the plaques so they can make money,
The metal to them is worth more than the memory of the dead,
Toppling monuments,
With no money to replace.
They remain a testament to there disgrace.
So you see my dear the poppy says so much more than a paper and plastic,
It means a thank you,
My comrades I will remember you, you did not die in vain.
His eyes where misting over,
Tears gleaming in his eyes
His granddaughter looked up with a little look of surprise,
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek,
Its alright grandpa
I shall wear my poppy with pride,
A little twinkle in her eye,
And so she did for years to come,
Remembering each time the words of her grandpa,
The hero who went unsung.
Standing at the Menin gate
Listening to the bugle call,
Remembering those words,
With a tear in her eye,
Seeing the old men
Stood side by side of the young soldiers,
The uniforms being worn with pride
Not knowing if some would live and some would die.
Show our soldiers you care
Where you’re poppy with pride
Not just for the old soldiers,
But for the new,
For the families of the fallen
And those that are left behind
Asking him to explain the poppy appeal, please,
Why the flower grandpa?
Why the men sat in uniform with boxes and buckets balanced on there knees?
The old soldier dressed in a smart jacket, beret, and tie looking so neat?
Why do they march grandpa?
And hold a 2 minute silence, please?
Why the monuments of stone, steal and wood?
With names of so many there to see?
The Grandpa looked down on her head and placed a kiss,
Now my dear he said,
The flowers we use because they grew in the fields of Flander’s,
Where young men who fell for our freedom,
And died with no known grave to be seen,
The men who sell the poppies are those who lived,
Honouring the memory of there friends who fell for freedom.
They march on the Sunday my dear to give thanks,
For those lives of there friends who they were never again to see.
You see my dear, those that died do not grow old,
Nor time weary them as it does me.
The silence we hold, for a moment silent prayer.
To give thanks for the freedom they shall not share.
We grow old my dear,
And the names fade from our memory,
Not many live now who can give character to the name,
Except the dusty records,
Of service and there gallantry.
My dear there are those, he said, who do not honour the dead,
Her little eyes grew wide at the thought,
They trash the monuments to the fallen
Desecrating there graves,
Stealing the plaques so they can make money,
The metal to them is worth more than the memory of the dead,
Toppling monuments,
With no money to replace.
They remain a testament to there disgrace.
So you see my dear the poppy says so much more than a paper and plastic,
It means a thank you,
My comrades I will remember you, you did not die in vain.
His eyes where misting over,
Tears gleaming in his eyes
His granddaughter looked up with a little look of surprise,
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek,
Its alright grandpa
I shall wear my poppy with pride,
A little twinkle in her eye,
And so she did for years to come,
Remembering each time the words of her grandpa,
The hero who went unsung.
Standing at the Menin gate
Listening to the bugle call,
Remembering those words,
With a tear in her eye,
Seeing the old men
Stood side by side of the young soldiers,
The uniforms being worn with pride
Not knowing if some would live and some would die.
Show our soldiers you care
Where you’re poppy with pride
Not just for the old soldiers,
But for the new,
For the families of the fallen
And those that are left behind
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