Oh, my God, you're seventy-six,

Now you're really in a fix.

One year older, what to do,

I really have not got a clue.

You were born in 1922,

Your parents' pride and joy.

1926, four years old, off to school,

To learn your three Rs,

'reading, 'riting, 'rithmetic.

Not like today, 'fink' and 'fort',

We were taught 'think' and 'thought'.

In 1932 you lost your mother,

10 years old, it took time to recover.

1936, 14 years of age,

Out to work to earn a wage.

1939, war was declared.

You couldn't wait for call-up papers,

You volunteered for RAF Reserves.

Were you patriotic, or were you balmy,

To end up in Burma in "The Forgotten Army"?

December 1954, your war was over,

You landed at the Straits of Dover.

Was it really worth all you went through?

We don't know but, then, do you?

1946, you got married, aged 24,

To me, who nearly lived next door.

1947, we had our son,

He was to be our only one.

We have a granddaughter and a grandson,

We have two great granddaughters,

And one great grandson.

So, at seventy-six

You are not in a fix.

You have a family and friends galore,

Memories to sit back on and enjoy,

Of the time when you were just a boy.

Enjoy your day while you may,

Seventy-six is a really good birthday. By Mrs Jean Aldred

Whitegate Drive, Bolton

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.