Its that time of year, when leaves are falling,
That the poppy sellers come a calling,
Or stand on a cold and draughty street,
Rubbing their hands and stamping their feet,
Shopper’s rush by in an endless crush,
And you stand and you stand in strange kind of hush,
Or you walk the village knocking on doors,
Or sit by the exit of famous big stores,
For hours and hours and days and days
You knock, you sit, you stand, you gaze,
You smile, you laugh, you chat and you joke
With the kind old lady or the generous bloke,
Who has opened the door or stopped on their way
To buy the red poppy and honour the day,
For those who paid the ultimate price
A tribute of crimson for their sacrifice,
To aid those who are wounded or old
To show respect for those that “Shall grow not old”,
Two minutes to stand in silent accord
In remembrance of those, at home and abroad for;

Quote;

“Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn”
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them”