Going Home
I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty -- ain't I glad to 'ave the chance!
I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France;
I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?
I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay;
A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way,
For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front!
I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt;
But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt,
To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.
I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red;
I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead;
But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said,
A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'.
I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un;
I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun;
But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done,
And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'.
Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine;
And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine;
But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine:
Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'.
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
Loose and Untied
Said I woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem on my mind.
Said I woke up
And got early out of bed.
With not a problem I could find.
Didn't want to have a rollin' eye to see.
So I crept across the floor...
Until I made it to the back door,
And eased out freely.
And I got up
Early
To rub that trouble out...
Right on time.
Said I...
Awakened up this 'meerrrnin'
With no problems on my mind.
Said I...
Opened up my eyes,
And slid so gently from her side.
'Cause an argument always meets,
My good mawnin' greetin'.
And a headache wasn't comin'
'Cause that headache...
Wasn't gon' be mine!
Said I...
Woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem
On my mind.
Said...
I woke up,
And got my mind out of bed.
With not a problem,
I could find.
Didn't want to have a rollin' eye to see.
So I crept across the floor...
Until I made it to the back door easy!
And I eased into the breeze to feel a freedom,
Loose and untied!
And I got up early,
To rub trouble
Out of my mind!
Said..............
I woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem on my mind.
Said,
I woke up...
And got early out of bed.
With not a problem I could find.
And I got up early
To rub
That trouble out,
Right on time.
Said I woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem on my mind.
Said I woke up
And got early out of bed.
With not a problem I could find.
And rubbed that trouble out,
Right on time.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Their Frailty
He's got a Blighty wound. He’s safe; and then
War’s fine and bold and bright.
She can forget the doomed and prisoned men
Who agonize and fight.
He’s back in France. She loathes the listless strain
And peril of his plight,
Beseeching Heaven to send him home again,
She prays for peace each night.
Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere
They die; War bleeds us white
Mothers and wives and sweethearts,—they don’t care
So long as He’s all right.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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My Bay'nit
When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit
And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore;
But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it,
So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war.
For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly
Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime,
'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly
Part of me outfit every time.
Left, right, Hans and Fritz!
Goose step, keep up yer mits!
Oh my, Ain't it a shyme!
Part of me outfit every time.
At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy;
I've used it to open a bully beef can;
For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy;
For any old thing but for stickin' a man.
'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you
Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime,"
And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you!
Part of me outfit every time.
Lor, yus; DON'T they look glad?
Right O! 'Owl Kamerad!
Oh my, always the syme!
Part of me outfit every time.
I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit,
Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France;
I'm fairly down-'earted -- 'ow CAN yer explain it?
I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance.
As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders,
Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb;
And I uses me bay'nit -- to slit their suspenders --
Part of me outfit every time.
Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag!
'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag!
Oh my, ain't it a gyme!
Part of me outfit every time.
poem by Robert William Service
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Goin Down To Rio
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio,
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Theres a place down rio town
Where everybody hangs around
And they all do the crazy thing
Dance a lot and love to sing
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
All right
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Take a trip down rio
Where I goin down there any day
Where the folks all have a ball
Just go down there for any all
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
All right, thats nice, Im going to rio
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Take a trip down rio where
Im goin down there any day
Where the folks all have a ball
Just go down knock on any door
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Goin down to rio, goin down to rio
Goin down to rio
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pre-electoral Preoccupations 0128
Electors, ever insincere,
provide polite applause,
of Mitterand they know no fear,
he's still to show them cause.
ere long they'll stall, or jeer, not cheer,
unless vote reassures.
Here socialistic cats appear
with communistic claws;
they pause, although with purpose clear,
steel glows through velvet paws.
They're posed to pounce, the vote draws near,
no reason here to pause.
Should they past policies adhere
and pass their Program's laws,
then much that democrats hold dear
could fall behind closed doors.
So farewell France, elsewhere I'll steer,
towards old Blighty's shores.
(19 March 1977)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Dead-beat
He dropped, - more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
-just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
- Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
'I'll do 'em in,' he whined. 'If this hand's spared,
I'll murder them, I will.'
A low voice said,
'It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
Dreaming of all the valiant, that aren't dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In some new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun.'
We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded; - stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, 'Not half!'
Next day I heard the Doc's well-whiskied laugh:
'That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!'
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Dead Musicians
I
From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,
The substance of my dreams took fire.
You built cathedrals in my heart,
And lit my pinnacled desire.
You were the ardour and the bright
Procession of my thoughts toward prayer.
You were the wrath of storm, the light
On distant citadels aflare.
II
Great names, I cannot find you now
In these loud years of youth that strives
Through doom toward peace: upon my brow
I wear a wreath of banished lives.
You have no part with lads who fought
And laughed and suffered at my side.
Your fugues and symphonies have brought
No memory of my friends who died.
III
For when my brain is on their track,
In slangy speech I call them back.
With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.
‘Another little drink won’t do us any harm.’
I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;
And see their faces crowding round
To the sound of the syncopated beat.
They’ve got such jolly things to tell,
Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat...
. . . .
And so the song breaks off; and I’m alone.
They’re dead ... For God’s sake stop that gramophone.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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The Chances
I mind as 'ow the night afore that show
Us five got talking, -- we was in the know,
"Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it,
First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it."
"Ah well," says Jimmy, -- an' 'e's seen some scrappin' --
"There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen;
Ye get knocked out; else wounded -- bad or cushy;
Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy."
One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops.
T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props.
An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites,
'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz.
Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty
(Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty),
But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not;
'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad;
'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot --
The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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A Digger's Tale
'My oath!' the Duchess sez. 'You'd not ixpect
Sich things as that. Yeh don't mean kangaroos?
Go hon!' she sez, or words to that effect --
(It's 'ard to imitate the speech they use)
I tells 'er, 'Straight; I drives 'em four-in-'and
'Ome in my land.'
'You 'ear a lot,' sez little Digger Smith,
'About 'ow English swells is so stand-off.
Don't yeh believe it; it's a silly myth.
I've been reel cobbers with the British toff
While I'm on leaf; for Blighty likes our crowd,
An' done us proud.
'Us Aussies was the goods in London town
When I was there. If they jist twigged your 'at
The Dooks would ask yeh could yeh keep one down,
An' Earls would 'ang out 'Welcome' on the mat,
An' sling yeh invites to their stately 'alls
For fancy balls.
'This Duchess -- I ain't quite sure uv 'er rank;
She might 'ave been a Peeress. I dunno.
I meets 'er 'usband first. 'E owns a bank,
I 'eard, an' 'arf a dozen mints or so.
A dinkum toff. 'E sez, 'Come 'ome with me
An' 'ave some tea.'
'That's 'ow I met this Duchess Wot's-'er-name --
Or Countess -- never mind 'er moniker;
I ain't no 'and at this 'ere title game --
An' right away, I was reel pals with 'er.
'Now, tell me all about yer 'ome,' sez she,
An' smiles at me.
'That knocks me out. I know it ain't no good
Paintin' word-picters uv the things I done
Out 'ome 'ere, barrackin' for Collin'wood,
Or puntin' on the flat at Flemin'ton.
I know this Baroness uv Wot-yeh-call
Wants somethin' tall.
'I thinks reel 'ard; an' then I lets it go.
I tell 'er, out at Richmond, on me Run --
A little place uv ten square mile or so --
I'm breedin' boomerangs; which is reel fun,
When I ain't troubled by the wild Jonops
That eats me crops.
'I talks about the wondrous Boshter Bird
That builds 'er nest up in the Cobber Tree,
An' 'atches out 'er young on May the third,
Stric' to the minute, jist at 'arf past three.
'Er eyes get big. She sez, 'Can it be true?'
'Er eyes was blue.
'An' then I speaks uv sport, an' tells 'er 'ow
In 'untin' our wild Wowsers we imploy
Large packs uv Barrackers, an' 'ow their row
Wakes echoes in the forests uv Fitzroy,
Where lurks the deadly Shicker Snake 'oo's breath
Is certain death.
'I'm goin' on to talk of kangaroos,
An' 'ow I used to drive 'em four-in-'and.
'Wot?' sez the Marchioness. 'Them things in zoos
That 'ops about? I've seen then in the Strand
In double 'arness; but I ain't seen four.
Tell me some more.'
I baulks a bit at that; an' she sez, ''Well,
There ain't no cause at all for you to feel
Modest about the things you 'ave to tell;
An' wot you says wonderfully reel.
Your talk' - an' 'ere I seen 'er eyelids flick --
'Makes me 'omesick'.
'I reckerlect,' she sez -- 'Now let me see --
In Gippsland, long ago, when I was young,
I 'ad a little pet Corroboree,'
(I sits up in me chair like I was stung.)
'On it's 'ind legs,' she sez, 'it used to stand.
Fed from me 'and.'
'Uv cours, I threw me alley in right there.
This Princess was a dinkum Aussie girl.
I can't do nothin' else but sit an' stare,
Thinkin' so rapid that me 'air roots curl.
But 'er? She sez, 'I ain't 'eard talk so good
Since my childhood.
''I wish,' sez she, 'I could be back again
Beneath the wattle an' that great blue sky.
It's like a breath uv 'ome to meet you men.
You've done reel well,' she sez. 'Don't you be shy.
When yer in Blighty once again,' sez she,
'Come an' see me.'
'I don't see 'er no more; 'cos I stopped one.
But, 'fore I sails, I gits a billy doo
Which sez, 'Give my love to the dear ole Sun,
An' take an exile's blessin' 'ome with you.
An' if you 'ave some boomerangs to spare,
Save me a pair.
''I'd like to see 'em play about,' she wrote,
'Out on me lawn, an' stroke their pretty fur.
God bless yeh, boy.' An' then she ends 'er note,
'Yer dinkum cobber,' an' 'er moniker.
A sport? You bet! She's marri'd to an Earl --
An Aussie girl.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Pillbox
Just see what’s happening Worley! Worley rose
And round the angled doorway thrust his nose
And serjeant Hyde went too to snuff the air. . . .
Then war brought down his fist, and missed the pair!
Yet Hyde was hit by a splinter, the blood came,
And out sprang terrors that he’d striven to tame,
A good man, Hyde, for weeks. I'm blown to bits,
He screams, he screams. Come Bluffer, where’s your wits,
Says Worley, Bluffer, you’ve a blighty, man!
All in the pillbox urged him, here began
His freedom: Think of Eastbourne and your dad,
The poor man lay at length and brief and mad
Flung out his cry of doom; soon ebbed and dumb
He yielded. Worley with a tot of rum
And shouting in his face could not restore him,
The ship of Charon over channel bore him,
All marvelled even on that most deadly day
To see this soul so spirited away.
poem by Edmund Blunden
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Pill-Box
Just see what's happening, Worley.-Worley rose
And round the angled doorway thrust his nose,
And Sergeant Hoad went too. to snuff the air.
Then war brought down his fist, and missed the pair!
Yet Hoad was scratched by a splinter, the blood came,
And out burst terrors that he'd striven to tame.
A good man, Hoad, for weeks. I'm blown to bits.
He groans, he screams. Come, Bluffer, where's your wits?
Says Worley. Bluffer, you've a blighty, man!
All in the pillbox urged him, here began
His freedom: Think of Eastbourne and your dad.
The poor man lay at length and brief and mad
Flung out his cry of doom; soon ebbed and dumb
He yielded. Worley with a tot of rum
And shouting in his face could not restore him.
The ship of Charon over channel bore him.
All marvelled even on that most deathly day
To see this life so spirited away.
poem by Edmund Blunden
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Stretcher Case
He woke; the clank and racket of the train
Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain.
Then for a while he lapsed and drowsed again.
At last he lifted his bewildered eyes
And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and skies,
Heavily wooded, hot with August haze,
And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze,
Acres of harvest.
Feebly now he drags
Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags
And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare,
To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air.
He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath;
This level journeying was no ride through death.
‘If I were dead,’ he mused, ‘there’d be no thinking—
Only some plunging underworld of sinking,
And hueless, shifting welter where I’d drown.’
Then he remembered that his name was Brown.
But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned,
Till in his heart thanksgiving leapt and burned.
There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land,
Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these, he scanned
Large, friendly names, that change not with the year,
Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Goin On
Oo oo oo ooo goin on
When in the mornin
I must arise
I look in the mirror
It couldnt be clearer
Somethin is gone from my eyes
Goin on
Goin on
Goin on
I know what is missin
cause since youve been gone
My mind keeps on reelin (mind keeps on reelin)
My heart keeps on feelin (heart keeps on feelin)
Why is my love goin on (goin on)
Goin on
Goin on
Goin on
I love you
I miss you
Things wont be the same till I kiss you
Im empty
Without you
My hearts full with my arms about you
Ooo ooo ooo ah ah ah
We said it was over
Were livin apart
We couldnt quite make it (couldnt quite make it)
But still I cant shake it (but still I cant shake it)
Our love still lives on in my heart (in my heart)
Goin on
Goin on
Goin on
I love you
Forever
Love wont be the same again ever (same again ever)
Without you (without you)
Im longing (Im longing)
You gave me a sense of belonging
Oo oo oo oo oo goin on
Why is my love goin on (goin on)
Goin on
Goin on
Goin on
I love you
I miss you
Im sorry
Forgive me (wont you forgive me)
Believe me (believe me)
My lover (my lover)
There never could be any other
Ooo oooo oooo goin on
Come be my
Redeemer
Awaken me beautiful dreamer (beautiful dreamer)
I love you (I love you)
I miss you (I miss you)
Things wont be the same till Im with you
Ahhhhhhhhhhh
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Whole Worlds Goin Crazy
(myles goodwyn)
Published by goody two tunes, inc. - bmi
Everyones feelin crazy, but no one takes the chance
When theres a knock on the floor, the whole world starts to dance
A fireman rushes over, hes got stretchmarks on his hose
And he punched out the light under everybodys nose
Ooh, ooh, its alright (its alright), its alright (its alright)
Ooh, ooh, its alright, yeah its just alright
The music was gettin louder, until you could not hear a sound
So turn it up if you want when the record starts spinnin around and around and around
And you can dance on my face if you want to
Its alright, its alright
And if youre feelin much the same way as I do
Its alright, yeah, its just alright
The whole worlds goin crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy
Hey baby, you wanna go crazy with me
The ladies smoked the whiskey, and the butler ate the wine
New york, thats alright, but to keep it down more divine
The whole worlds goin crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy
Hey baby, you wanna go crazy with me
And you can dance on my face if you want to
Its alright, its alright (everybody)
Cause if youre feelin just as crazy as I do
Its alright, yeah, its just alright
Ooh, ooh, its alright (its alright), its alright (its alright)
Ooh, ooh, its alright, yeah its just alright
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Still Goin' Strong
Through the years,
We've had our ups and downs.
Ain't been a block
We haven't been around.
We've been one step up,
And two steps back,
But our love's gotten
Right back on track.
We're still goin' strong,
Like a freight train
Burning on a midnight run.
We're rolling right along,
Still goin' strong.
In tryin' times,
When push came down to shove,
We'ld pull together,
And show what we're made of.
With a lot of love,
And a little faith,
We moved every mountain
In our way.
We're still goin' strong,
With a fire thats hotter
Than the deset sun.
We're still turnin' on,
Still goin' strong.
It's still as good
As it's ever been.
Our love's just gettin'
It's second wind.
We're still goin' strong,
Two hearts poundin'
Like a rock and roll drum,
Lovin' all night long,
Still goin' strong.
We're still goin' strong,
Like a freight train
Burning on a midnight run.
We're rolling right along,
Still goin' strong.
Still goin' strong,
Goin' strong.
Still goin' strong,
Goin' strong.
Still goin' strong,
Goin' strong...
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Irish Soldier
The Irish Soldier
Edward Marshall is my name
Ireland is my nation
Leeds is my dwelling place
And Heaven’s my expectation
My mother came from Erin’s isle
She’s buried in Dungannon
My sweetheart is a Limerick lass
The Rosebud of the Shannon
I came to Blighty seeking work
And listed for a soldier
For when the drums of war beat out
There is no man that’s bolder
They gave me three square meals a day
A uniform for drilling
A place to sleep, a private’s pay
A gun and blade for killing
I dreamt to Ireland I’d return
With gold and tales a-plenty
But on a stretcher here I lie
And both my pockets empty
They’ll patch me up and send me back
To trenches, rats and slaughter
Gas! Gas! the cry. For sure I’ll die
By bomb or poisoned water
My soul will go to God above
My body cannot follow
For ‘twill be filled by German lead
Dead, in a war-torn hollow
Edward Marshall is my name
Ireland is my nation
Leeds is my dwelling place
And Heaven’s my expectation
poem by Sheena Blackhall
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Something Fishy
There must be something fishy going on
You said you were goin on a fishin trip with some old friend
You said that youd be home tonight somewhere around ten
Well here it is, its two oclock and youre still not at home
I think theres something fishy goin on
I think that Im a sucker thats swallowing your line
I try to make myself believe that its all in my mind
But you never asked me if Id like to go along
So there must be something fishy goin on
Chorus:
Theres something fishy goin on
On these fishin trips youre goin on
Im gettin tired of stayin home alone
Some night when you come home and discover that Im gone
You can bet theres something fishy goin on
I guess some large-mouth bass left that lipstick on your shirt
I dont think youre a fisherman, honey
I think youre a flirt
Well if youre goin fishin then why dont you bring em home
I think theres something fishy goin on
Repeat chorus
Tag:
Yes, you can bet theres something fishy goin on
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jam (A Hymn of Hate)
What is meant by active service
'Ere where sin is leakin' loose,
'N' the oldest 'and's as nervis
As a dog-bedevilled goose,
Has bin writ be every poet
What can rhyme it worth a dam,
But the 'orror as we know it
Is jist jam, jam, JAM!
Oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it—
Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary
jam!
There's the “fearful roar iv battle,”
What gets underneath yer 'at,
Mooin' like a million cattle
Each as big as Ararat;
There's the red field green 'n' slippy
(And I'm cleaner where I am),
But the thing that's got me nippy
It is jam, jam, JAM!
Druv us sour it has, 'n' dippy,
Sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin'
jam!
Of the mud that's in the trenches
Writers make a solemn fuss;
For the vermin 'n' the stenches
Little ladies pity us;
But the yearn that's honest dinkum,
'N' the prayer what ain't a sham
Is that Fritz may bust 'n' sink 'em
Ships of jam, jam, JAM!
For we bolt 'em, chew 'em, drink 'em,
Million billion bar'ls of beastly, cloyin'
clammy jam!
We are sorry-sick of peaches,
'N' we're full right up of plum,
'N' innards fairly screeches
When the tins of apple come.
Back of Blighty piled in cases,
Jist as close as they can cram,
Fillin' all the open spaces,
Is the 'jam, jam, JAM!
Oh, the woe the soldiers face is,
Monday, Sunday, ruddy, muddy, boundless
bogs of jam.
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Any Soldier To His Son
What did I do, sonny, in the Great World War?
Well, I learned to peel potatoes and to scrub the barrack floor.
I learned to push a barrow and I learned to swing a pick,
I learned to turn my toes out, and to make my eyeballs click.
I learned the road to Folkestone, and I watched the English shore,
Go down behind the skyline, as I thought, for evermore.
And the Blighty boats went by us and the harbour hove in sight,
And they landed us and sorted us and marched us "by the right".
"Quick march!" across the cobbles, by the kids who rang along
Singing "Appoo?" "Spearmant" "Shokolah?" through dingy old Boulogne;
By the widows and the nurses and the niggers and Chinese,
And the gangs of smiling Fritzes, as saucy as you please.
I learned to ride as soldiers ride from Etaps to the Line,
For days and nights in cattle trucks, packed in like droves of swine.
I learned to curl and kip it on a foot of muddy floor,
And to envy cows and horses that have beds of beaucoup straw.
I learned to wash in shell holes and to shave myself in tea,
While the fragments of a mirror did a balance on my knee.
I learned to dodge the whizz-bangs and the flying lumps of lead,
And to keep a foot of earth between the sniper and my head.
I learned to keep my haversack well filled with buckshee food,
To take the Army issue and to pinch what else I could.
I learned to cook Maconochie with candle-ends and string,
With "four-by-two" and sardine-oil and any God-dam thing.
I learned to use my bayonet according as you please
For a breadknife or a chopper or a prong for toasting cheese.
I learned "a first field dressing" to serve my mate and me
As a dish-rag and a face-rag and a strainer for our tea.
I learned to gather souvenirs that home I hoped to send,
And hump them round for months and months and dump them in the end.
I learned to hunt for vermin in the lining of my shirt,
To crack them with my finger-nail and feel the beggars spirt;
I learned to catch and crack them by the dozen and the score
And to hunt my shirt tomorrow and to find as many more.
I learned to sleep by snatches on the firestep of a trench,
And to eat my breakfast mixed with mud and Fritz's heavy stench.
I learned to pray for Blighty ones and lie and squirm with fear,
When Jerry started strafing and the Blighty ones were near.
I learned to write home cheerful with my heart a lump of lead
With the thought of you and mother, when she heard that I was dead.
And the only thing like pleasure over there I ever knew,
Was to hear my pal come shouting, "There's a parcel, mate, for you."
So much for what I did do - now for what I have not done:
Well, I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun,
I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum,
I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum.
I never borrowed money, and I never lent - but once
(I can learn some sorts of lessons though I may be borne a dunce).
I never used to grumble after breakfast in the Line
That the eggs were cooked too lightly or the bacon cut too fine.
I never told a sergeant just exactly what I thought,
I never did a pack-drill, for I never quite got caught.
I never punched a Red-Cap's nose (be prudent like your Dad),
But I'd like as many sovereigns as the times I've wished I had.
I never stopped a whizz-bang, though I've stopped a lot of mud,
But the one that Fritz sent over with my name on was a dud.
I never played the hero or walked about on top,
I kept inside my funk hole when the shells began to drop.
Well, Tommy Jones's father must be made of different stuff:
I never asked for trouble - the issue was enough.
So I learned to live and lump it in the lovely land of war,
Where the face of nature seems a monstrous septic sore,
Where the bowels of earth of earth hang open, like the guts of something slain,
And the rot and wreck of everything are churned and churned again;
Where all is done in darkness and where all is still in day,
Where living men are buried and the dead unburied lay;
Where men inhabit holes like rats, and only rats live there;
Where cottage stood and castle once in days before La Guerre;
Where endless files of soldiers thread the everlasting way,
By endless miles of duckboards, through endless walls of clay;
Where life is one hard labour, and a soldiers gets his rest
When they leave him in the daisies with a puncture in his chest;
Where still the lark in summer pours her warble from the skies,
And underneath, unheeding, lie the blank upstaring eyes.
And I read the Blighty papers, where the warriors of the pen
Tell of "Christmas in the trenches" and "The Spirit of our men";
And I saved the choicest morsels and I read them to my chum,
And he muttered, as he cracked a louse and wiped it off his thumb:
"May a thousand chats from Belgium crawl under their fingers as they write;
May they dream they're not exempted till they faint with mortal fright;
May the fattest rats in Dickebusch race over them in bed;
May the lies they've written choke them like a gas cloud till they're dead;
May the horror and the torture and the things they never tell
(For they only write to order) be reserved for them in Hell!"
You'd like to be a soldier and go to France some day?
By all the dead in Delville Wood, by all the nights I lay
Between our lines and Fritz's before they brought me in;
By this old wood-and-leather stump, that once was flesh and skin;
By all the lads who crossed with me but never crossed again,
By all the prayers their mothers and their sweethearts prayed in vain,
Before the things that were that day should ever more befall
May God in common pity destroy us one and all!
poem by Anonymous English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whats Really Goin Wrong
Hahahah, (here it goes)
Good evening ladies and gentlemen,
Welcome to tonights presentation,
Its brought to you by us,
And its non-fiction
Everybody saw
The last movie we made,
And this one called whats really goin wrong
What is really, what is really goin wrong
Well what is really, what is really goin wrong
Sublime in the place livin up chickens creation
In 1996 to make you buy this cinematation,
This is what they, agree to show to you
Its not really the truth
But youll believe it through and through
What is really, what is really goin wrong
What is really, what is really goin wrong
(space aliens sounds)
What is really, what is really goin wrong
What is really goin wrong
(speed it up)
What is really, what is really goin wrong
What is really, (what is really), what is really, what is really goin wrong
(guitar solo)
What is really goin wrong
What is really, what is really goin wrong
song performed by by Sublime
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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