Memories of a Pilot

With the hat upon his head,
The crest and eagle, gold and red;

He flies above all, in his spitfire,
He goes up, higher and higher;

As cold as ice, the weather is tough,
Will he make it, will it be enough;

Guns fire from every plane,
They fire and fire, before the rain;

It starts to hail, like little boulders,
Heavy weights upon his shoulders;

The bombs drop from the planes above,
The bullets fly, ending love;

He got hit, the plane, it shook,
It tumbled to the ground, without one look;

He floats to Earth on silken thread,
Waiting faces lie ahead;

The dungeon, cold and damp,
The bed, the room, without a lamp;

He got back safely, to the fire in the house,
As warm as a bug, as cosy as a mouse;

His badges hold so many memories,
He is my great grandfather.