Fourteen Hundred Hours

I reckon I parked in the last empty space:
The High Street was already full
The media circus was well under way
With their cameras and tripods and all;
And there's Mister Collier whom everyone knows
In his coat and his fine feathered hat
This isn't the first time. It won't be the last
I regret that I'm certain of that, mmm...

And somebody's wearing a poppy
That most symbolic of flowers;
And how the silence spreads
When they're bringing them home
At fourteen hundred hours

Marshall's, the Bakery. J Rouse, hardware
Crump and Son, Butcher...

Well, the veteran motorbike club's out in force
And their stories should also be sung;
But it's soldiers in uniform all down the street
And dear gods, but they look so very young
It's good-natured chatter and stranger-well-met
In this Wiltshire market town –
And the locals and visitors stand side by side
As the shops and the cafés close down, close down;

And somebody's wearing a poppy
That most symbolic of flowers;
And how the silence spreads;
They're bringing them home
It's fourteen hundred hours

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