CONCHY by Harry Rodgers He wore a black poppy and a white feather Every single day with pride He wore the black poppy and the white feather Every day until he died Nothing they did could make him change his mind Wouldnt do what they told him to They locked him up and even beat him up He still wouldnt do as he was told Kept his head high never let them see him cry Wavered not even as he got old Conchy was his name Waging peace his game Conchy was his name Waging peace his game Black poppies For Conchies Sixteen hundred Long dead and gone They set him to work on the ambulance train Treating dying and wounded men Sent him near the front for the whole of the war Again and again and again British and French and even German soldiers too Patched up those he thought would survive Collected creased photographs of loved ones on swings From those who were no longer alive Young girls on swings From London or Berlin Daughters, mums and wives All now with ruined lives White feathers For Conchies Sixteen hundred Long dead and gone Took Conchy for his name he was born to disobey Never did what others told him to do Refused to go and fight he would never kill a man No matter whoever wanted him to Envelopes were sent to him with white feathers in For week after week after week He kept them, every one, wore one in his lapel Waited for somebody to speak Conchy was his name Waging peace his game Conchy was his name Waging peace his game Wear a black poppy For Conchy Wear a white feather For Conchy Sixteen hundred like him Long dead and gone Remembered here To live on and on Harry Rogers, Aberbanc November 11th 2014 (To the groove of Neil Youngs Ordinary People)
Posted on: Wed, 12 Nov 2014 18:33:30 +0000
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