by | Jan 1, 2008 | Poetry | 0 comments

The young man spun his wheels again,
And black smoke rose like soot,
For 1600 big CCs,
Lay waiting ‘neath his foot.

The young lad grinned at the old man,
Who’d never know the thrill,
Of a head to head on the 229,
Or a ton down Bluebell Hill.

The old man grinned right back at him,
For the lad brought back a face,
Of another boy from long ago,
Who lost a different race.

My motor was a Merlin Rolls,
I played the deadly game,
For in my wings were Brownings eight,
And Hurricane its name.

I see it now, that summer’s day,
It dawned so bright and fair,
And as the call to scramble came,
I said my daily prayer.

Is this, Dear Lord, to be the day,
To be my day of fate,
And will it be by 109,
Or Junkers eighty-eight?

And as we climbed the burning blue,
Eyes straining for the Hun,
The 109s were quick that day,
The odds, twenty to one.

Young Jimmy turned and dived away,
His throttle thru’ the gate,
A Messerschmitt hot on his tail,
Intent to seal his fate.

The Merlin screamed his last lament,
From fifteen thousand down,
Into a Sussex hillside,
His grave was never found.

Best spin your wheels my Lovely Lad,
And make the old folks frown,
Than walk your girl down Hitler Strasse,
In the heart of London Town.


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