Len lost it all, as much as a man can lose.

His wife was seeking something that money couldn't buy

And she left man and child to follow some GI,

While Len baked in the jungles of Bhurma.

(She died penniless in Detroit, in fifty three; Len received a bill for the burial.)

De-mobbed he took a farm, but lost two hundred sheep on the fell,

All in one storm in the weary winter of forty seven.

The snow drifting, ever shifting, thirty feet deep in Len's yard.

"Poor uncle Len" worked hard on the farms through the years,

Walling and shearing to pay off the debt,  

With never a drink and never a bet.

In the winter he worked the late shifts in the mill,  

Long hours and low pay,

To buy land and a future for his boy someday.

But his son went to Cyprus to fight the black priest.

To fly the queen's flag in the high Troodos.

Where some other shepherd's boy pulled a pin,  

Completing Len's loss!

In sixty two we saw the return of the white hell,  

Lesson learnt Len's stock well weathered the blizzards.

Hardy Herdwicks all, at home on the Fell.

We found them all alive, but we lost Len's mind while digging them out,

In his white whirling, drifting and ever shifting, maelstrom of doubt.

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