by | Jun 14, 2006 | Poetry | 0 comments

Into his Spitfire, the bullets flew,
How could it happen to one of the few,
Who had shot his share of pilots down,
Whilst laughing deliriously like a clown,
Now his turn to die was here at last,
His life becoming forfeit to the past,
Was it because God thought him crass,
Would parishioners pray at mass,
To the memory of this fine young life,
Offering condolences to his sad wife,
And running the usual coffee morning
To raise funds to ease her mourning,
These thoughts ran through the mind of who,
Into his Spitfire the bullets flew.


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *