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.