They are so proud of their son, the war hero,
and now they were given the highest accolade,
a soldier can receive, from a grateful nation.
In the great hall they met generals who said
it was an honour to meet the parents of a hero,
they had brought up a fine son, (a post mortem
medals are gentle plaster on the ulcer of grief.)
Music and pink flowers, chocolate cake and
tea; the nation’s president shed blameless and
manly tears, his lachrymose display for us to
admire; pity the hero wasn’t there. Time to go
as low paid cleaners came, ate the remains of
the cake, drank lukewarm tea, and idly spoke
about the weather and the high prices of gas.