This poppy was recently made for me as an impromptu gift, by a young lady who had been researching her family tree, and had found that a male relative had served in the RAF in WW2. I will always treasure it.

 

I wrote the following probably ten years ago.

 

On Armistice Day, (which, by now, all should know,

Marks the end of World War Number One),

I remembered Them, as I sat in the glow

Of the fire, and gazed at the embers, alone,

 

Fell silent for two minutes at the eleventh hour,

On the eleventh day of the eleventh month,

Remembered Them, and that bloody flower,

And dreamed up a money-making stunt,

 

Thirties and Forties nostalgia fests,

(Marking the end of World War Number Two)

With which, thank the Lord, we’re now eternally blessed,

Playing goodies and baddies, and standing in queues,

 

I fell silent and thought: “Well I could give a hand,

To the Royal British Legion; an arm and a leg

Is the price that I’m asking for the use of my brand,

In a world that’s becoming one great powder keg”,

 

So bollocks to Remembrance, that’s so much old hat,

(Here’s to the heroes of World War Number Three),

Selling my planes and bombs is now where it’s at,

Let the tills go kerching, and the red blood run free.

 

It’s arse tits and champagne at the Poppy Rocks Balls,

Here’s to health and to wealth (that is, ours) and stuff you, 

Here’s to fine-sounding speeches in grand hallowed halls,

To a Yemeni child turning cyanose blue.