With dinner simmering nicely on the hob,

in comfort and with gratitude, I watched

the ritual enacted on our screen;

a sombre scene, demanding dignity,

respectful silence, mindfulness of grief.

The whistle blown, straight o’er the top they went,

did Tommy Atkins and his brave young pals,

the destiny of most - Eternity.

Two minutes’ quiet, the very least required;

not much to ask for Tommy - after all!

Another whistle though’d been loudly blown,

so enter Tommy Ten Names and his thugs;

whilst from a bottle guzzling booze was one,

the raucous call of England till I die!

resounded over Whitehall to their shame.

Cenotaph: the concept of that word

lost then on empty heads and empty hearts.