He lived around the corner from us.
You could often see him catching the bus.
People would point and then they would say.
I wonder why he walks that way.

The youths would laugh, stop and stare.
They would giggle, and snigger, they didn’t care.
One would copy his funny walk, and then they jeered.
At the little old man with the long grey beard.

The shop assistants would shout out loud.
He just stands with his old head bowed.
They would interrupt him and slowly explain.
As though had only had half a brain.
It was just as if they had sneered and sneered.
At the little old man with the long grey beard.

They didn’t know him, said he looked a disgrace,
And, what was really wrong, with his face.

It was the shell that exploded, in the aircraft he flew.
It was the fire he fought, when he rescued the crew.
The skipper was dead, they were losing height.
He had a look round, GOD! What a sight.
One engine on fire, the tail shot to hell.
The chutes were all burned, by the incendiary shell.

The fighters were gone, so was the flak.
He straightened the aircraft, and pulled the stick back.
They ran out of fuel, with two miles to go.
We can glide in from here, if the speed isn’t slow.
He pulled the men out when he landed the plane.
And went to get help, half feinting with pain.

Now all that was a long time ago.
And red tape, with government, is always so slow.
But time has caught up with this little old man.
Everything now is going to plan.

The old man, who’s beard is grey.
Was presented to the queen to-day.
When she pinned on the medal, he was so proud.
AND then he turned and faced the crowd.
They cheered, and THEY CHEERED.
The little old man with the long grey beard.