The Anthrax took my sister in the Spring of fifty-three,

my Mother died when I was twenty-five,

I wondered when a lightning bolt would thunder down on me

But here I am - a hundred - still alive.

My best friend was a jockey who had never won a race,

he wanted to, but said his hands were tied,

I still recall the paper lips upon his skinny face,

he put his hand in mine and slowly died.

You wonder if I married? Yes, I had a pretty wife,

she bore four sons who went to Turkey's hell,

a U-Boat took the twins, another found a Nazi's knife,

the eldest of them wore a mortar shell.

At three each day I'd visit her, we'd sit there, silent shade,

I kissed her cheek on V-Day, said we'd won,

she didn't seem to care, and as her broken heart decayed

I tried to find the words but there were none.

I've sat and helped the sun wake up and seen the shadows fall,

and watched a hundred heroes come and go,

religion made no sense, I never found my wailing wall,

if there is something over there - I'll know.

There'll be no gleaming epitaph to show that I had been,

I doubt that there is one to shed a tear,

no headlines as I never won a war or crowned a Queen,

grieve not for me - for I know I was here.