by Richard John Scarr
He was just my dear old Grandad.
Thin on top, and wrinkle brow.
But boy! When he got going.
Could my Grandad spin a tale!
He would tell of Wartime epics.
That he'd embarked upon
Which I listened to with sceptic ear.
And knowing Gramps was stringing me along.
He would tell of trips behind the lines.
Of dangerous deeds well done!
Of coming face to face with foe.
And of battles fought and won.
And I'd say to Granma: 'Grandad's tales,
are growing by the mile.
But Gran would simply look at me.
Then give a knowing smile.
But I remember thinking at the time.
Though grandad's tales were just white lies.
And merely told with tongue in cheek.
He was still a hero in my eyes!
Then came the news I'd come to dread.
It simply said: 'Your Grandad's dead!'
That sweet old man had passed away.
And a piece of me too, died that day.
Gone were the days when my old Gramps.
Would bend my ear, and swing the lamp!
But I was sure the Grandad that I knew.
Would swing that lamp in Heaven too.
No doubt the Angels gather round.
As tales of Grandad's deeds abound.
But I bet they take him down a peg.
With: 'Come on! Pull the other leg!'
And then one day, Gran came to stay.
And she handed me a small brown case.
Saying: 'Grandad wanted you to have them.
For he knew with you, they would be well placed.
When I looked inside. I swelled with pride!
There Campaign Medals. Medals galore!
And many of them said: 'For Valor!'
She said: 'Grandad won them in the War!'
And as the tears rolled down my cheeks.
Gran said: 'Your Grandad knew.
You thought he was swinging you a line.
But every tale he told-- was true!!!'
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