Taught this was good writen by Dave and posted by Murf POOR SCOUSER TOMMY (THE UNTOLD STORY) Dave Kirby (aka Braces and Boots) Near Bootle docks in a terraced street where kids played football in bare feet stands little Tommy, 8 years of age most kids were poor in pre war days. They'd have to borrow, beg or steal and rarely ate a decent meal but no one held their heads in shame for kids back then were all the same. Together with his little mates he'd peer through the dockyard gates at merchant ships from far and wide who's cargo's had them hypnotized. They never stole for gain or greed they stole for basic human need a sense of 'conscience' did not exist thats just a word used by the rich. As Tommy grew into his teens he'd make a shilling by any means he'd steal from Peter to pay back Paul to watch his hometown play football. To Anfield every other week he'd amble through the cobbled streets climbing gas lamps with dirty hands stealing apples, and skipping trams. He'd stand upon a wooden crate to watch Kays team of 38 Mcdougal and Busby played at half back while Balmer and Kinghorn led the attack. Like all young lads he had no cares life is such bliss, when your unaware one big adventure from day to day just eat and sleep, and steal and play. For boys like Tommy, knew not their fate a world wide conflict soon lay in wait their youth was halted in its tracks as war torn Europe, faced Hitlers wrath. Now aged 16, Tom soon filled out and learned to put himself about he'd watch his team at anfield play he'd sing and shout, but got carried away. He developed a taste for the local brew and before each match, had quite a few he'd run on the pitch to the penalty spot but was unfortunately thrown out quite alot. He wasn't malicious, cruel or mean his heart was big, but his pockets were lean but like all folk from pre-war days he had respect for his elders ways. The sound of cheering and waving rattles would soon be swapped for guns and battles aged just 19, who would have guessed he'd soon do battle, with Rommels best Together with his older brother he kissed the cheek of his tear-filled mother in his uniform, with his packet of fags and his lucky red hat, in his old kit bag. Then off he went on a southbound train en route to the battle of El Alamein to the royal artillery, he was commissioned with the 51st Gordon Highland Division. He arrived in October of 42 as Monty's 8th army were turning the screw but nothing prepared him for what was to come in the blistering, searing north African sun They were given their orders, to relieve the front-line but the path to Tripoli, was ladened with mines so they'd all split up into 12 man platoons then tip toe with death through the minefields and dunes. There was just no escaping the sweltering sun or the deafening noise of the bresa guns there were flys in their thousands and nothing but sand in this god forsaken war torn land. They came to a clearing by a salt marsh trail where abattle enraged, on a frightening scale the shell fire was deafening, as smoke filled the sky Tommy muttered a prayer "Lord dont let me die." He reached in his pocket for his lucky red hat things were looking real bad, for these desert rats the German panzers had attacked from both flanks leaving smouldering corpses, of burnt out tanks. Then orders were given by Tommys command to gain high ground and make a stand he kissed his hat , as he put it away then advanced with his troop, on his final day. In the mayhem which followed, on that hot afternoon there was all but 2, of his 12 man platoon they were trapped in a crater, left by a shell all around lay the bodies of those who had fell. The soldier with Tommy, was hit and in pain his trembling hand, held his cross and chain he said "Get me home" with a tear in his eye "Just leave it to scouse" came Tommy's reply. So amidst the screeching of mortars and shells he decided to dash, through this living hell he took a deep breath, closed his eyes touched his hat once again, then climbed over the rise. But Tommys dash would be ill fated as deaths dark angel calmly waited for as he stood to make his run he was sprayed with bullets, from an old nazi gun. He danced in a death like a marionette falling back in the crater, from which he'd just left his injured friend crawled across where he lay but the bright burning sun was now fading to grey. As the blood from his headwound flowed into the sand his weakening grip, dropped the hat from his hand the lucky red hat which he treasured so much lay tattered and bloodstained, in the African dust. Then visions flashed before his eyes of his Liverpool home, and times gone by his tearful mother, and his childhood mates waved up to the sky, from the dockyard gates. As the African sands of time ran dry a tear appeared in Tommys eye as he thought of Anfield so far away where he'd no longerwatch his idols play. It was at this point just before he died that he turned to the soldier by his side he reached out a hand, and pulled him near then whispered his last words into his ear. The month was January of 43 about 20 miles east of Tripoli in the blistering heat, there was something cold it was the body of a boy, just 20 years old. The last words he uttered, through his dying breath are a lasting legacy to Tommys death some 60 years after his heavenly call his words are now folklore, sang by us all. The sacrifices that those boys made seem long forgotten by folk these days they died so we could all be free they died for the likes of you and me. So every time we sing that song we must remember right from wrongs we'll sing it loud, and recall with pride poor scouser Tommy, and the millions who died and the song goes; let me tell you a story of a poor boy sent far away from his home to fight for his king and his country and also the oldf folks at home, so he joined the highland division and was sent to a far foreign land we the flies swarmed around by the thousand and there's nothing to see but the sand, well the battle it started that morning underneath that hot African sun and we remember poor scouser Tommy who was shot by that old Nazi gun, as he lay on the battlefield dying with the bllod rushing out of his head as he lay on the battle field dying we remember the last words he said, i am a liverpudlian and i stand in the spion kop i like to sing, i like to dance and i get thrown out quite a lot, there's a team theat we all known the greatest in the land it's a team we call Liverpool and to glory we will march, we've won the league we've won the cup we've been to Europe too we played the toffee's for a laugh and left them feeling blue.
That is one fantastic piece from Dave, it reminds of another brilliant liverpool song TWO LITTLE REDS Two little boys had two little toys Each had a wooden horse Gaily they played each summer's day Warriors both of course One little chap then had a mishap Broke off his horse's head Wept for his toy then cried with joy As his young playmate said Did you think I would leave you crying When there's room on my horse for two Climb up here Jack and don't be crying I can go just as fast with two When we grow up we'll both be soldiers And our horses will not be toys And I wonder if we'll remember When we were two little boys Long years had passed, war came so fast Bravely they marched away Cannon roared loud, and in the mad crowd Wounded and dying lay Up goes a shout, a horse dashes out Out from the ranks so blue Gallops away to where Joe lay Then came a voice he knew Did you think I would leave you dying When there's room on my horse for two Climb up here Joe, we'll soon be flying I can go just as fast with two Did you say Joe I'm all a-tremble Perhaps it's the battle's noise But I think it's that I remember When we were two little boys Do you think I would leave you dying There's room on my horse for two Climb up here Joe, we'll soon by flying Back to the ranks so blue Can you feel Joe I'm all a tremble Perhaps it's the battle's noise But I think it's that I remember When we were two little boys
Love them both, especially the PST one as alot don't know the story, thats why its definitely my favourite song!
The Justice Bell by Dave Kirby A schoolboy holds a leather ball in a photograph on a bedroom wall the bed is made, the curtains drawn as silence greets the break of dawn. The dusk gives way to morning light revealing shades of red and white which hang from posters locked in time of the Liverpool team of 89. Upon a pale white quilted sheet a football kit is folded neat with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red and some football boots beside the bed. In hope, the room awakes each day to see the boy who used to play but once again it wakes alone for this young boy's not coming home. Outside, the springtime fills the air the smell of life is everywhere viola's bloom and tulips grow while daffodils dance heel to toe. These should have been such special times for a boy who'd now be in his prime but spring forever turned to grey in theYorkshire sun, one April day. The clock was locked on 3.06 as sun shone down upon the pitch lighting up faces etched in pain as death descended on Leppings Lane. Between the bars an arm is raised amidst a human tidal wave a young hand yearning to be saved grows weak inside this deathly cage. A boy not barely in his teens is lost amongst the dying screams a body too frail to fight for breath is drowned below a sea of death His outstretched arm then disappears to signal fourteen years of tears as 96 souls of those who fell await the toll of the justice bell. Ever since that disastrous day a vision often comes my way I reach and grab his outstretched arm then pull him up away from harm. We both embrace with tear-filled eyes I then awake to realise its the same old dream I have each week as I quietly cry myself to sleep. On April the 15th every year when all is calm and skies are clear beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon a lone scots piper plays a tune. The tune rings out the justice cause then blows due west across the moors it passes by the eternal flame then engulfs a young boys picture frame. His room is as it was that day for thirteen years its stayed that way untouched and frozen forever in time since that tragic day in 89. And as it plays its haunting sound tears are heard from miles around they're tears from families of those who fell awaiting the toll of the justice bell.