Each one similar, each head different and full of the dancing piouret suit that grandfather donned
In East London Streets twirling hoping the coins would drop into felt hat
At home was a shop, a sweet shop
Selling Dew Drops, bubble gum, wine drops, gob stoppers that changed colour in your mouth
Each week the ladies would hustle and bustle and speak of rising costs
They would leave the shop on tick
And the shop didn't make that much
But much was enough and yet never enough so three tuppence could buy you a pie and mash 
All so grand to be filled after street hustling and dancing for a living 
Finding art pumped through his veins
My grandfather rose to his feet and stood tall for his country
Climbing out from under dead bodies to remember at home 
Was Mary with her thick black curls and gentle Irish tone
Of a warm bed where night scares shook him even in fatherhood
This man from laughter and jokes that shook your rib cage
Was cripppled by it the blood stains never able to quite leave the corners of his mind 
We laid in wake at his wake of his embers put into vase
Ashes of a great life that started in. bright and beautiful colour
And I see him in minds eye
Bending over a bed of roses
And wondered how these simplicitys eased the brain from the red colours that crept in and shook him from sleep