And should you weep for him, if so inclined,

Then mingle knowledge with your gift of tears,

Bare not your heart alone - unveil your mind

Upon the history of his nineteen years.

He kicked a ball in narrow London streets,

Then pedalled groceries round Walthamstowe.

He learnt of love in cheaper Gaumont seats,

Set it to jazz-time on his radio.

He had a wife for seven magic nights,

His eyes grew softer in a small hotel.

They shared a dream of London, rich with lights

And all the things that Woolworths has to sell.

Against his shaggy head he brushed a sleeve,

Within the barber's shop considered 'pride'.

Bought contraceptives in the hope of leave,

Then flew to Nurnburg that night and died.

Written by William Clapham

In memory of Fl/Sgt. Wiliam Paterson Clapham

Killed on Halifax III LV923 ZL-M on the 31st March 1944