Poppy Day Pride
Their wool uniform rubbed skin raw.
The lice infections irritated more.
Their sodden feet and rotting toes,
and all before they met their foes.
But I will not grieve as veterans walk by.
I will not sob at the November sky.
No. I will proudly hold my head up high,
for those brave men who had to die.
They did not, en masse, run away, nor
did they flee at the ominous raven's caw.
And although the tears flow back through time.
It meets the song of men in their prime.
So as poppies appear behind people's eyes,
and the bugle reaches that melancholy rise.
While other's cry over their demise.
I'll don not pity's mask - nor belie.
I'll stand and smile and thank every one.
Land, air and sea for all they've done.
There'll be no white hanky - for I will not bawl.
As poppies rain down in the Albert Hall.
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