Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.144.114.93

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

Bartholomew Barton; his friends called him Barty
Eighteen years old but no birthday party
Slumped in the mud, a gunshot to the shoulder 
But unlike his comrades at least he’d get older

Tyrannical forces sought world domination
And Barty had marched with his mates for his nation
They gave him some medals for some of his actions
They don’t stop him flinching at noisy distractions

Those heroic deeds he did when he was able
His medals he'd sold to put food on the table
Brought him a pension that won’t pay the rent
With callers demanding the money they’d lent

One day the council demanded his key
And food graced his table now infrequently
But ‘table’ is merely an old cardboard box
And food is a bin-find he shares with a fox

He could do a D-Day and steal a small boat
And hit a Kent beach in his moth-eaten coat
But the taxes he’s paid since his battlefield hell
Do not seem to warrant a four star hotel

So thanks for your effort Bartholomew Barton
It’s qualified you for a pine veneer carton
You gave us your all to give us our today
Then too many governments turned you away 

The question is now would you do it again
As you sleep under cardboard in torrential rain
For fighting a war for a brighter new day
Should not mean that home is a dank alleyway

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required