We'll remember when that wreath is just a crown of thorns to drape around your helmet - hide out anywhere at all. We'll remember when you're no more than a poem on a grave - a sideline for the guy who writes the birthday cards but never signs his name. He's got your number, feels your pain... though you're smiling from the mantel-piece and you've got your rifle trained. It's pointing at the T.V. Shall we tell you when to fire? There's a programme we all hate... it's not a late show so you won't be tired. We remember how you loved the war films, and hid behind the sofa throwing b**** of silver paper. We remember. We remember. We've got our poppies on. We hear the clock chime out eleven. We remember, we remember it's Poppy Day. (You shall not grow old!)