K.O.Y.L.I. Poem by Ian Kellett

My Harry was a railway man
Who signed up for a foreign war;
He never was a sailing fan
Or champion of the flying corps,

So with the army he enrolled,
And off to France he duly went,
Where after digging many holes
Climbed out of them a sergeant.

He was a kid before the Somme
That autumn brought a change,
When birthday number twenty one
Defined for him an age;

Whose stories rarely passed his lips,
Of mustard gas or worse attacks,
Though afterwards he never slept
Without them shouting back.

That vintage British infantryman,
My grandfather and saviour,
Ventured out of history’s land
And into my parade yard.