As my grandad lay dying in hospital
Visions of the past threw shadows on the skirting board
Through a fog he could see
Perfectly clearly
A fire team scrambling
He described the soldiers and our eyes grew wet
They were only inches high
Locked in battle
Running to the future
Advancing 'cross the floor

Throughout his life my grandad had a recurring dream
Of fighting as a young man in the muddy fields
On the way to Rome
His company severely depleted
Torn to bloody shreds
The shout came to retreat
When he reached the trench the men were packed like sardines
He couldn't find a place to hunker down
He would wake up running
Screaming to the platoon
"Is there any room for a little 'un?"
Ooh

Then the soldiers disappeared and my grandad saw
Ascending a tiny stepladder
A balding man in overalls
Who took a brush the size of a postage stamp
And brightened the corner of
That dreary room
In his final moments he was back at home
The smell of Yorkshire puddings drifting through the garden
Tending to the buddlejas
They hover round his hand, ooh
So many beautiful butterflies, ooh
Ooh
Ooh, is there any room from a little one?
Ooh, ooh