A teapot on a tray she brings.
Digestive in each saucer.
Horrific tales of war to tell
But only if she’s forced to.
She’s angelic, prim and ninety
And no one’s ever heard her
Speak a single word of malice,
But in her eyes there’s murder.
She’s always lived in Odd Down,
Feeding kids and darning socks,
But in August 1940
She worked in Plymouth docks.
To be a nurse, or cook, or clerk
She never could succumb.
The tool of dear old Betty’s trade
Was an anti-aircraft gun.
Cat gently pushed from comfy chair,
She pours the tea and sighs.
Her face lights up as she recalls
Blasting Fokkers from the skies.
Years have flown so quickly by.
Her kids have grown and fled.
Now little to do but make the tea
And recount the German dead.
Bombers came across the sea
To kill and terrorise.
Shot down by a deadly war machine
With Betty Lewis eyes.
The sort of thing that made Betty's eyes light up.