My dad’s overcoat

My dad’s overcoat

My dad’s old coat was on my bed, when I was but a lad,
I used it for a blanket, that coat from my old dad,
I didn’t realise then, what stories it could tell,
How that coat, and my old dad, had been halfway to hell.

It was a big brown serge overcoat, I didn’t know what it was for,
It was the one my dad bought home with him after discharge from the war,
Too proud to speak about it, he never told me why,
Although from my bedroom, I often heard him cry.

His tears were for the sights he’d seen and the horrors of that place,
The sights and sounds that haunted and left a sadness on his face,
He never could forget it, it was always on his mind,
The slaughter and the madness, and the pals he’d left behind.

He would march round to the Cenotaph and stand there, on parade,
Then spend that time reflecting on the orders he’d obeyed,
That sent him forth to fight for us and Hitler’s evil smote,
My dad, his pals, their army, and his brown overcoat.

God bless you Dad and all of you who fought for our freedom.

Mick.