Post by Administrator on Feb 18, 2021 21:34:43 GMT
SQUEEZE BOX
There used to be a sailor man,
Who sat down in the square.
He'd play upon his squeeze box,
For anybody there.
He used to play the saddest tunes,
Such haunting melodies.
He told us all his stories,
Of his service on the seas.
He often said he's seen it all,
Of war he had his share.
Besides there's few around these days,
Who take the time to care.
To them we're just old sailor men,
Who live in memories.
And speak of friends or pals who died,
In battles on the seas.
There used to be a sacred time,
Of remembrance every year.
When they came to watch the march past,
Yes, they used to hold that dear.
But of late there's just less interest,
In old sailors of our land.
It's sad but true those sailor men,
Are no longer in demand.
Their ranks have gotten smaller,
Yes, they dwindle, never fear.
And pretty soon they'll be few left,
To be forgotten every year.
Ian Adrian Millar
When we were tied up at Wellington there was an old sailor who used to sit on the wharf and play tunes to raise a bit of change for coffee or whatever and this poem stemmed from our conversations.
Ian Adrian Millar
There used to be a sailor man,
Who sat down in the square.
He'd play upon his squeeze box,
For anybody there.
He used to play the saddest tunes,
Such haunting melodies.
He told us all his stories,
Of his service on the seas.
He often said he's seen it all,
Of war he had his share.
Besides there's few around these days,
Who take the time to care.
To them we're just old sailor men,
Who live in memories.
And speak of friends or pals who died,
In battles on the seas.
There used to be a sacred time,
Of remembrance every year.
When they came to watch the march past,
Yes, they used to hold that dear.
But of late there's just less interest,
In old sailors of our land.
It's sad but true those sailor men,
Are no longer in demand.
Their ranks have gotten smaller,
Yes, they dwindle, never fear.
And pretty soon they'll be few left,
To be forgotten every year.
Ian Adrian Millar
When we were tied up at Wellington there was an old sailor who used to sit on the wharf and play tunes to raise a bit of change for coffee or whatever and this poem stemmed from our conversations.
Ian Adrian Millar