Please don't look at me and pity, the job I've chosen to do,
You're only a carer after all, I suppose that part is true.
But let me tell you why I choose to do this sometimes thankless role,
to wipe bottoms, make cups of tea, the menial tasks as a whole.
A typical day in our life is to knock upon the door
of the person who lies behind it whose feelings are pretty raw.
We see the person underneath who once a land girl was
Who now relies on us to do the things she used to do.
Her life experiences trapped away in a body that is broke,
her strength that shines through the worn-out bones she tries to use,
to listen to her stories, to walk a mile in her shoes.
We see the big brave gunners who fought in the RAF,
In Lancasters and Spitfires, their nerves of steel, their hearts so brave,
who made Great Britain great,
who helped rebuild this earth,
who never forgot their friends and the many lives they gave.
We see the dancer spinning round, gliding across the polished floor
In their beautiful ballroom gowns,
Dancing to the foxtrot, waltz and jive.
When they tell us who they used to be and the fun that they once had
their eyes still dance to the tunes they hold, and their memories come alive.
We see the miners, their blackened eyes, their lungs are full of dust.
The graft, the comradery, the tragedy and pain,
the sense of brotherhood they found amongst their peers.
But still they tell their stories with a smile upon their face
and take us back beside them, as they walk down memory lane.
So yes we make the cups of tea, we make sure they have their meds.
Clean clothes, a smile and yes, we make their beds.
But please don't look at me and pity
the job I've chosen to do.
Because yes, I am a carer,
I stand tall, I'm proud, so thank you.
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