The Darkest Years

Do you remember long ago.
As a child of eight or so.
"Spanish Wood" was all the rage.
When sweets were rationed.
Like "Utility" clothes.
Speckled apples, stale old cakes.
For one old-penny a feast you'd make.
Tuppeny cornet,big round block.
Fantastic taste, I've not forgot.
"Herbal tablets", "Nippets" too.
Were sweets not rationed to war kids true.
Ration books of "E"s and "Ds".
Brought any sweet you like to please.
"Bagwash" shop on a friday night.
Collect the washing in a two wheeled cart.
Or a ball-bearing scooter made of wood.
Along the pavement, they sound good.
"Powdered egg", dried up prunes.
Jars of malt, you'd get one spoon.
Bread and dripping a mug of tea.
Were "make-do-dinners" for you and me.
War was raging at this time.
With "Buzz-Bombs" flying over head.
If the engine stops, a street is dead.
Air-raid-warning, a banshee sound.
Like a rabbit your under ground.
Search-lights blazing over head.
Ack-Ack gunners spitting lead.
On with masks, incase of gas.
When German bombers begin to blast.
"Black-out curtains" a man would shout.
When a speck of light should shine out.
The air raids over, the streets alight.
A "Land-mine" fallen in the night.
Devastation all around.
All thats left is scorched black ground.
The darkest years, I knew so well.
When birds of death rained down hell.
Go down deep,deeper still.
Away from bombs and shrapnel shells.
Some happy memories, but most are sad.
For this it what happens when the world.
GOES MAD

Peter Wicks

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