Lucky Dip Number 7
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Does Money Grow on Trees
"Does money grow on trees" we say! I guess so think the young today For everywhere one looks one sees Kids coming down with 'consumerese'. Yet all of forty years ago I cannot say that it was so, Especially when on holiday Much less sufficed my kids for play. In Belfast at their grandad's home My eldest daughter (not alone) Was wheeling an old baby pram That was kept there, my darling lamb. A soldier passing on patrol Took pity on the poor wee soul And crying in his beer he said "A thousand blessings on her head". Years later in another land This soldier chanced to hurt his hand, And thus to hospital retired To get the treatment he required. Full trained as physio by then My daughter did to him attend* And chatting as she worked apace Learned he'd served in that other place. My grandad's home is over there And that's most often where we were When holidays would come around - Do you know the road where it is found? I travelled there most every day Our barracks sure were out that way, Such poverty I do declare I never saw till I went there. The kids so little had to please, Ah sure, 'twould make your blood to freeze, If I had kids, I tell you straight, I wouldn't leave to such a fate. Tears welled up in his big blue eyes So deeply did he sympathise, His hand it shook at such a rate 'Twas hard for her to concentrate. My daughter, taken quite aback, Had never witnessed such a lack; Whatever makes you think that way? Was all that she could find to say. Two little girls, my heart is sore, Were playing there outside their door, And all they had between the pair? An aged pram, I do declare. My daughter gave his hand a pat, Please don't distress yourself like that For that was sis and me you see And we were happy as could be. I loved that ancient rambling home With attics I'd delight to roam; Entranced mid old-time trove, I'd spend From morning till the day would end. The pram was just a thing was left, Don't think that we were so bereft; Imagination brought more joys Than every room stuffed full with toys. This poem may be all in fun But I can't be the only one Who thinks that something said in jest Is often wiser than the rest. * A strange but true coincidence |