TV
My TV is ancient
its an old CRT
The pictures real fuzzy
snows all I see
Its lasted for years
but dont you just know
It exploded in flames
in the middle of a show
For my TV was ancient
its time to upgrade
I want a big screen
as soon as im paid
It cost a small fortune
with shipping and tax
Now to connect it all up
to my old betamax
The Forge
The Indispensable Man
Sometime when you're feeling important;
Sometime when your ego's in bloom;
Sometime when you take it for granted,
You're the best qualified in the room:
Sometime when you feel that your going,
Would leave an unfillable hole,
Just follow these simple instructions,
And see how they humble your soul.
Take a bucket and fill it with water,
Put your hand in it up to the wrist,
Pull it out and the hole that's remaining,
Is a measure of how much you'll be missed.
You can splash all you wish when you enter,
You may stir up the water galore,
But stop, and you'll find that in no time,
It looks quite the same as before.
The moral of this quaint example,
Is to do just the best that you can,
Be proud of yourself but remember,
There's no indispensable man.
Luck
I suppose they'll say his last thoughts were of simple things,
Of April back at home, and the late sun on his wings;
Or that he murmured someone else's name
As earth reclaimed him sheathed in flame.
Oh God! Let's have no more of empty words,
Lip service ornamenting death!
The worms don't spare the hero;
Nor can children feed upon resounding praises of his deed.
'He died who loved to live,' they'll say,
'Unselfishly so we might have today!'
Like hell! He fought because he had to fight;
He died that's all. It was his unlucky night.
Dennis McHarrie
This poem commemorates a friend of the poet who took up a defective plane and crashed, a plane the poet could well have flown himself.
Lady Astor accused those who were fighting in Italy as D Day dodgers who were enjoying the warm weather of southern Europe. This came out as an answer:
There is a song the Eighth Army used to sing,
Marching through the desert, marching with a swing
But now they're on a different game.
Although the tune is still the same
The words have all been altered,
The words we're singing still:
We're the D-Day Dodgers here in Italy,
Drinking all the vino, always on a spree.
We didn't land with Eisenhower
And so they think we're just a shower
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
We're the D-Day dodgers here in Italy
Drinking all the vino, always on a spree.
Eighth Army scroungers and their tanks,
We go to war in ties like swanks.
We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy
Dearest Lady Astor, you think you're mighty hot,
Standing on the platform, talking tommyrot.
Dear England's sweetheart and her pride
We think your mouth's too bleeding wide -
From all the D-Day Dodgers, in sunny Italy.
Here's to Lady Astor, our pin up girl out here.
She's the dear old lady, who sends us such good beer
And when we get our Astor band,
We'll be the proudest in the land,
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
We landed in Salerno, a holiday with pay,
The Jerries brought the band out to greet us on the way.
Showed us the sights and gave us tea,
We all sang songs, the beer was free
To welcome D-Day Dodgers, to sunny Italy.
Salerno and Cassino we're takin' in our stride
We didn't go to fight there, we went there for the ride
Anzio and Sanzio were just names,
We only went to look for dames,
The artful D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
'round Lake Trasimano we'd a lovely time
Bags of wine and women, they didn't cost a dime.
Base wallahs, amgot and the yanks,
All stayed in Rome, to dodge the tanks
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
We stayed a week in Florence, polished off the wine,
Then thumbed our way to Rimini right through the Gothic Line
Soon to Bologna we will go when Jerrys gone across the Po
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, the lads that D-Day dodged.
We hear the boys in France are going home on leave,
After six months service it's a shame they're not relieved
But we can carry on out here for what may be a few more years
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
Once we heard a rumour we were going home
Back to dear old Blighty never more to roam
Then someone said in France you'll fight
We answered: "No, we'll just sit tight!"
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, the lads that D-Day dodged.
When the war is over and we've done our bit
Climbing over mountains, through mud and sleet and ****,
Then we will all be sent out east
Till B.L.A. have been released
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
Forgotten by the many remembered by the few
We'd our armistice when an armistice was new
One million Germans gave up to us
We finished our war without much fuss
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.
Look around the mountains in the mud and rain
You'll find scattered crosses, some which bear no name.
Heart break and toil and suffering gone
the boys beneath them slumber on,
For they're the D-Day Dodgers, who stayed in Italy.
Hamish Henderson, 1944
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling, 1909
I was thinking about posting Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, but posting a600 lines article probably isn't cricket......
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For today (St Georges Day)
The True Dragon
St George was out walking
He met a dragon on a hill,
It was wise and wonderful
Too glorious to kill
It slept amongst the wild thyme
Where the oxlips and violets grow
Its skin was a luminous fire
That made the English landscape glow
Its tears were Englands crystal rivers
Its breath the mist on Englands moors
Its larder was Englands orchards,
Its house was without doors
St George was in awe of it
It was a thing apart
He hid the sleeping dragon
Inside every English heart
So on this day lets celebrate
Englands valleys full of light,
The green fire of the landscape
Lakes shivering with delight
Lets celebrate St Georges Day,
The dragon in repose;
The brilliant lark ascending,
The yew, the oak, the rose
by Brian Patten
Vitaï Lampada
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
Henry Newbolt
Why do you still march old man?
With your medals on your chest
Why do you still grieve old man?
For those friends you laid to rest
Why do your eyes gleam old man
When you hear those bugles blow
Tell me why you cry old man
For those days so long ago.
I'll tell you why I march, young man
With these medals on my chest
I'll tell you why I grieve young man
For those friends I laid to rest
Through misty folds of gossamer silk
Come visions of distant times
When boys of very tender age
Marched forth to distant climes
So young they were... with blossom cheeks
Their eyes shone bright and clear
Scant knowledge of this sinful! World
Thought nought of hate or fear
Their laughter rang through strange bare rooms
Hardships.. They were soon to know
All they knew, was beyond their shores
Was a deadly vicious foe
They left behind their boring life
They had nothing much to give
So they laid their lives on the line
So you... young man... would live
With bayonet... Gun... And blossom cheeks
The innocence of their youth
They stood alone with fearsome pride
And perceived the awful truth
The truth they learnt… they had to die
(It's not easy when you're young)
The gods of war had chosen them
And stilled their youthful tongues
The guns they crashed… and the stukas dived
The shells tore their flesh asunder
I smelt their blood… watched them die
The war lords claimed their plunder
And as these warrior gods passed by
They smiled at their obscene death
Gone were their apple blossom cheeks
Scorched by napalm burning breath
We buried them in a blanket shroud
Their young flesh scorched and blackened
A communal grave newly gouged
In the bloodstained gorse and bracken
And you ask me why I march… young man
I march to remind you all
But for those apple blossomed youths
Freedom… would have been lost to all.
Rees was a Gloucestershire lad who died on the Somme in July 1916. His body was never found and his name on the Menin Gate is his only memorial except for this poem, which was written by his mother:-
Telling the Bees.
They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and died out there:
Bugle and drum for him were dumb, and the padre said no prayer;
The passing bell gave never a peal to tell that a soul was fled,
And we laid him not in the quiet spot where cluster his family dead.
But I hear a foot on the pathway, above the low hum of the hive,
That at edge of dark, like the song of the lark, tells that the world is alive.
Yet he cannot chose but tell them the news-the bees have a right to know.
Bound by the ties of a happier day, they are one with us now in our worst.
On the very morn that my boy was born they were told the tidings first.
Wise little heralds, tell now of my boy; in your golden tabard coats
Tell the bank where he slept and the stream that he leapt, where the spangled lily floats.
The tree he climbed shall toss its head, and the torrent he swam shall thrill,
And the gale that bore his shouts before shall carry his message still.
G.E. Rees.