In the dark twisted depths of despair <br />salamone staggeres into his filthy lair <br />reeking of opium, whiskey and rum <br />into his quarters, they looked so glum <br />the candlelight flickered in the drafty room <br />cockroaches roamed, he was not alone <br />at the bottom of the glass he looked for the truth <br />whats happened to all those years? his mis-spent youth <br />pondering over those days during the war <br />doodlebugs that rained on the dull London night <br />Urchins gather shrapnel cos moneys so tight <br />an old womans finger bleeds as she sews her stocking <br />Grandads in an east end pub enjoying a lock in <br />So many faces numbing the pain <br />Are they here for the laughter or to stay out the rain <br />the stories they tell, how i wish they were all alive <br />its them we should thank for 1945<br /><br />GORDON SAUNDERS<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1945/
