In the dark twisted depths of despair
salamone staggeres into his filthy lair
reeking of opium, whiskey and rum
into his quarters, they looked so glum
the candlelight flickered in the drafty room
cockroaches roamed, he was not alone
at the bottom of the glass he looked for the truth
whats happened to all those years? his mis-spent youth
pondering over those days during the war
doodlebugs that rained on the dull London night
Urchins gather shrapnel cos moneys so tight
an old womans finger bleeds as she sews her stocking
Grandads in an east end pub enjoying a lock in
So many faces numbing the pain
Are they here for the laughter or to stay out the rain
the stories they tell, how i wish they were all alive
its them we should thank for 1945
GORDON SAUNDERS
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1945/
