So many I know now lie in that yard, to venture up I do find hard.
Friends I watched grow up with me, their faces now, I all can see.
Hear their voices, out loud too, which they learned from the village school.
My Grandad's there amonst the friends, a song he sings once more then sends.
I've only met one man that I'd call finer than Roy the boy, the Bevin Miner.
And that man is... my hero, barring none, he is my Dad I am his Son.
I miss him more every single day, football I watched boy he could play!
So friends, Gramps & Dad a toast of beer, to another Christmas without you here.
Of course we'll all meet up again one day but until then I want to say.
No matter how much time goes by, no matter how much tears can dry.
The joy you brought into the village can not be taken can not be pillaged.
I bet you're in the Stute in heaven and knowling you lot on beer seven!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem