by Betty Mates

Pie-eyed pensioners with beer

Found themselves a new career

- At the bottom of the garden.

Hired to clear the jungle land,

Couldn’t cope and so they planned

To go to earth, a dug-out make,

And ‘bivvy’ there - for old times’ sake

(Just like in that other war,

When comradeship was true and sure)

- At the bottom of the garden.

Complete with fags and beer and snuff,

And soldiers’ tales - and all that stuff –

They dwell content, without the fear

Of erstwhile Jerries drawing near

- At the bottom of the garden.

Late evening, when the coast is clear,

To make a ‘recce’ they’ll appear,

Before they plunder local ‘fridges.

Of course, they have to mind the midges

- At the bottom of the garden.

They yarn, recalling days long gone

- And once they start they do go on

As they get that old familiar thrill.

For all I know, they stay there still

- At the bottom of the garden.