Queenie Feather
by
Cyril Fletcher
This is the tale of Queenie Feather
Who fire-watched in all sorts of weather 
And being rather scared of bombs 
She made herself some tin-lined combs 
So went on duty unafraid,
Tin-hat, tin-combs, bucket and spade. 
One night on hearing the alert 
She filled her bucket up with dirt, 
Then scurried up the attic stairs 
To stand among the falling flares. 
Well, just as she was feeling tired 
An anti-aircraft gun was fired, 
And as the shell went whizzing past 
The tin-combs couldn't stand the blast.
And though poor Queenie tried to duck it 
She fell head first in her dirty bucket. 
So holding her courage in her hand 
She stood like an ostrich in the sand. 
The shell which bent our Queenie double 
Landed a Jerry plane in trouble
And the Pilot shouting "Here I come" 
Landed on poor Queenie's bum. 
The tin combs acted like a skewer 
And Hitler's air-force was one fewer. 
Now like a soldier of the line 
Our Queenie is a heroine
George Medal awarded, the Mayor to give it
And for the combs, a golden rivet.
The end