Brown Paper Bag

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Sometimes I wear my medals

sometimes folk ask me

what are they for?

I tell them, they nod and sometimes

put a little extra in my begging bowl.


But I'm ok tonight

got my whisky in

my brown paper bag,

got my brown cardboard box

it's what I call home,

got Kevins old sleeping bag

to keep me nice and warm,

poor old Kev' he don' need it no more

it was the booze that did for Kev.


Sometimes after the whisky

I fall asleep huming that

old song we used to march to,

"The British Grenadier"

◄ My Puppy Died

Afghanistan 74 ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Mon 17th Jan 2011 19:08

I can. Words too. That's why this poem is a scorcher in sarcasm. Bernie, this is rightfully socked into our faces: his home is his box is his medals is his life.

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Mon 17th Jan 2011 18:08

I've seen guys like this former heroes hooked on booze - Kipling has a lot to say about our boys when the spotlight goes off them - a serious poem about serious issues - I wonder how many people if surveyed could tell you how the British Grenadier went these days - I suspect pitifully few - your poem brings that reality home to us

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