From the pen of Turlough Ó Maoláin ...

The Chronicles of Bulgaria

Betty Lewis Eyes


A teapot on a tray she brings.

Digestive in each saucer.

Horrific tales of war to tell

But only if she’s forced to.


She’s angelic, prim and ninety

And no one’s ever heard her

Speak a single word of malice,

But in her eyes there’s murder.


She’s always lived in Odd Down,

Feeding kids and darning socks,

But in August 1940

She worked in Plymouth docks.


To be a nurse, or cook, or clerk

She never could succumb.

The tool of dear old Betty’s trade

Was an anti-aircraft gun.


Cat gently pushed from comfy chair,

She pours the tea and sighs.

Her face lights up as she recalls

Blasting Fokkers from the skies.


Years have flown so quickly by.

Her kids have grown and fled.

Now little to do but make the tea

And recount the German dead.


Bombers came across the sea

To kill and terrorise.

Shot down by a deadly war machine

With Betty Lewis eyes.


The sort of thing that made Betty's eyes light up.

The sort of thing that made Betty's eyes light up.

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