Heroes In November
Heroes in November
Once a year we roll them out,
dust them off and line them up.
The must, the odour lingers on,
to be expected when you lock them up.
They sort of stumble, wobble on,
so we prop and wheel them to the spot.
A bugles blow we honour them,
before their hours wean.
Those are heroes… old and frail?
It’s hard to comprehend.
I pictured men in muscled shirts,
who kick and punch real hard.
Of course they’d be so handsome too,
and full of charm and swagger.
Not bald and freckled paper skin
and hands that shake and rattle.
Once a year we roll them out,
the men who saved our lives.
The soldiers who without a qualm
fought for you and I.
I guess they are the fortunate
to be remembered by us all.
For what they did to serve for us:
a price we’d never could repay.
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