The year was nineteen forty-five,
and war was all but done,
as Johnny heard those final words,
"Lay down your arms, we've won."

Somewhere back in England,
Sally hears the breaking news.
She slips into her Sunday best,
steps into dancing shoes.

Out in the street it's party time,
and peace for ever more.
Roll out the beer, and give a cheer,
Let's drink to end all wars.

No more sounds of battle cry
are heard from muddy graves;
and soldiers shake their comrades' hands,
the young, the old, the brave.

"Let's pack it up and move on out,
I think we're homeward bound."
But Fritz the Hun takes one more shot--
poor Johnny hits the ground.

Kids standing at their mother's knee
(and my, how they have grown) --
for four long years, he fought the war,
now Daddy's coming home.

The bunting's hung and flags fly high,
but Johnny can't be seen;
and at the door a messenger
will shatter Sally's dream.

The year is nineteen ninety-five,
and time has passed her by.
The telegram held in her hand,
she hangs her head to cry.

So bittersweet the tears that fall,
as many have before,
for hero that her husband was,
the day he lost the war.