Pins are pricking my poor body; It’s night and the owls are gone. The roar of horsepower have replaced their song, And night is now
Pam-de poodle-pam His eager war-worn fingers tapped away; Home sweet home! How glad! No more late night crawls, Stealthy whispers; all will be better. He
Once I strode in February’s sunny clothes, And flowery fields and melodious fragrance thereof, And there, set my nose To receive that love Of nature
I wave my blistered hand before my bleeding face, Waving gunpowder smoke and blood fumes in the mist To see the survivors, to see hope.
I’m the anchor chain plunging into the deep, Summoned by the sombre sea bed, taut and steep. I’m the anchor chain torn between the deep
There’s not a rustle in the garden. Lucy is looking at the brow of her mom; Looking for a crease there saying the words mom’s