That was Pop;
On Anzac Day,
When he would march,
And we’d stand proud.
Pop couldn’t go,
‘cause he’d broke his neck.
Worked as a spotter, fell out of a tree;
Government man said “No room for you”.
So he stayed home,
And did his bit.
Couldn’t carry a gun to war,
But he could work a farm and trap a rabbit.
He fed the families of men who had gone.
They came home,
Broken bodies, aching hearts,
To families still whole.
Those who leaned on him all those years,
Crossed the street, and turned away.
Pop was no longer good enough to know.
But every year,
Until he passed,
The men held a place in that parade for him,
And I got to see him be a once-a-year white-fella.