Billy Sanders 1917-1933

Billy Sanders 1917-1933 Freddie Moore and David Hilberg were brothers to me, Freddie, a stalwart boy from Hoover Street, And David, a quiet and congenial lad, From nearby Dorland Street. Both fellas were smarter than me, Both, with muscles on legs and arms, Ran faster than me. Both were good with numbers, But I was good with words. Truly, I remember that day well, In 1932, here in Mt. Olive Cemetery, When Miss Annie from Sydney Mines, Received the supplications of a grieving earth, And took up residence in her new grave. “A Sad day for us all,” I heard Reverend Hodson say, And George Scott, after the service, Fell prostrate there, inconsolable, Astride her bed of weeping roses And wailing chrysanthemums. Freddie, a true friend I was proud, To call a friend, Comforted George, as a compassionate saint would, With kind hand on the shoulder, Of a distraught husband in mourning, “Sorry sir, sorry,” I heard Freddie Moore say, Softly, in the shade of the screaming walnuts. And when I myself found residence here, Dead at 16 from influenza, Freddie Moore, my stalwart friend, Showed compassion once again, Putting his caring hand gently, Upon the sunken slopping shoulder, Of a crying grieving mother. “Sorry mam, sorry,” I heard Freddie Moore say, Softly, in the shade of the screaming walnuts.