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The wail of sirens warned of a raid,
The drone of aeroplanes overhead,
The shout of the wardens, “Put out that light!�
Can the pilots really see a chink of light?
The whine of bombs and the whiz of flares,
The rat-tat-tat of replying guns,
And I in my blanket under the stairs.

If I die to night will I go to Heaven?
But it’s too soon, I’m only seven.

The bombing seems to go on forever
But, at last, the siren sounds all clear.
What a sight meets our eyes!
The sky is red from all the fires,
The smoke and dust and smell of tyres,
The cries of the injured and those in trouble
Buried underneath the rubble.
“Help the war effort, we need metal
Railings and gates even that old kettle
To make the planes, bombs and guns
To help our boys defeat the Hun.�

In a faraway country, another child listens
To the drone of our planes and the whine of bombs
And thinks, “Will I die and go to heaven?�
But it’s too soon, I’m only seven.

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