Chimney ghost stop wailing,
on this windy day.
I find the noise a-bit scary,
in a mournful kind of way.
With no welcome for you here,
wood stove door stays shut tight.
You want out, go upwards,
‘less you’re looking for a fight.
Canteen cafeteria, holds one hundred people or more,
As fifty conversations, bounce off the walls and floor.
Suddenly altogether, complete silence did ensue.
Had a famous person (I thought), entered into view?
I wondered was it Winston, Churchill of wartime fame?
His ghost materialising, grey image just the same
as the history books record him, fat cigar and v-sign hand,
Craggy looking smile, hunched over where he stands.
What history cannot tell you is… I piddled on his grave.
Don’t judge me too unkindly, an adolescent knave.
A boy uncertain of his place, with nothing much to lose,
Behaviour lacking scruples… and drunk, on stolen booze.
Before you boo and hiss, see a boy twelve at the time,
Although knew well of Churchill, peeing seemed no crime.
Before you boo and hiss, there’s a poignant question of scale,
I didn’t order city-obliteration, death, suffering, and misery, wholesale.