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I Predict

harry hayes

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This will be at least as popular as the last two poems on here.

My memory is being taken to the Cameo, pre war.

The films were cycled across town from either the Regent

or the Star Kinema.




Have we finished with that jam-jar mum?

No there's still a bit left inside;

So off to scavenge the local tip,

Dustbins or countryside.


You see jam-jars were quite precious,

In the depression days, pre-war;

Not just for housing tiddlers,

But to open a magic drawer.


We had three lots of cinemas,

Grade one; grades two and three;

The last were real dirty dumps,

'With each seat you get one flea'.


Entry was a penny or a jam-jar -

Few had a coin to spend;

Stamp and hiss when the film broke,

Or the showing started at 'the end'.


Double features were in fashion,

Films quickly cycled from there to here;

Usually that made for a short delay,

Joyous boos and then a cheer.


We were all in love with the 'leading light',

As she guided us to our pit;

The only flirting was with elastic bands,

A big hooray for a direct hit.


I believe this story from my father,

A man who never lied;

There stood a long line of urchins,

When a fellow in a suit arrived.


The man watched as each offered glass,

Which to him appeared very strange;

He slapped half a crown on the counter,

And received 29 jam-jars change.




Thank you for reading  Happy days



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more likely sold back to a jam factory at a profit. wonder if there is any info out on the web about that. will have to have a troll round and see what i can come up with.



well as a result of a quick search it seems that the collected jars were sold to the scrap man by the kinemas. One other option was for the kids to take the jars to the scrap man themselves and get the money thus getting the price of admission and a bit left over for some sweets.


so something new I have learned today. proof that we do live and occasionally learn.

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My dad fought in WW2. He lost his mates, and was taken POW, he always wanted to visit their graves but never got the chance. After he died I went to his old barracks and asked for a wreath in the regiments colours, I did the pilgrimage for him with my son, and wrote this,


One day my son asked who had won

that terrible war where my father had gone,

So I took him to that far off land

covered by miles or nothing but sand'

We reached a place where my father said

He'd lost his friends, the town Medjed.

Outside it's walls we found a place

surrounded by trees and so full of grace

We walked into that field of peace'

I whispered and told him what lay beneath,

There were rows and rows of whitened stones

hiding remains and broken bones.

upon the stones I found their names

the ones who he shared so many games

Three names I found of whom he spoke'

each of them "a bloody good bloke"

A thousand graves times a thousand more

all young lives lost in a futile war,

When all was done they'd count the cost

What price to pay for the mothers who'd lost.

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