Many a pint,

many a laugh,

many a smile,

and many the tears

over the months

and over the years.

Where now, though’s, love,

amongst these not-so-young lads,

and not-so-young girls?

Distant now,

perhaps a year ago?

the memory persists,

it’s vivid still,

the time yon mon,

distraught and close to tears,

burst through those welcoming

double doors,

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…and did those boots in World War time,

Stamp around England’s pleasant land:

And were those Blackshirt fascist sods,

From Cable Street off-seen!

Never did we countenance a time,

When journalists would see th’ Old Bill!

At dawn, a-knocking on their doors,

For telling truth, with fear instilled!

We must not cease Evil to Fight,,

Nor must my pen sleep in my hand...

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