Poetry is for Fags

[JJ_BPK]

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER


When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

R Kipling..

The last part was on several "business" cards of 5th SF(A) friends..

For a man that wrote childrens tails,, he sure had a feeling for the grunts..

[OIFDan]

.

[Coldsteel24]

I am a small and precious child, my dad's been sent to fight.
The only place I'll see his face, is in my dreams at night.
He will be gone too many days for my young mind to keep track.
I may be sad, but I am proud. My daddy's got your back.

I am a caring mother. My son has gone to war.
My mind is filled with worries that I have never known before.
Everyday I try to keep my thoughts from turning black.
I may be scared, but I am proud. My son has got your back.

I am a strong and loving wife, with a husband soon to go.
There are times I'm terrified in a way most never know.
I bite my lip, and force a smile as I watch my husband pack.
My heart may break, but I am proud. My husband's got your back.

I am a soldier. Serving proudly, standing tall.
I fight for freedom, yours and mine by answering this call.
I do my job while knowing, the thanks it sometimes lacks.
Say a prayer that I'll come home. It's me who's got your back.

Autumn Parker

[Atomsk]

"For a samurai, a simple word is important no matter where he may be. By just one single word martial valor can be made apparent. In peaceful times words show one's bravery. In troubled times, too, one knows that by a single word his strength or cowardice can be seen. This single word is the flower of one's heart. It is not something said simply with one's mouth. A warrior should not say something fainthearted even casually. He should set his mind to this beforehand. Even in trifling matters the depths of one's heart can be seen. "

Yamamoto Tsunetomo, The Hagakure

[6.8SPC_DUMP]

"If it isn't real - it won't work"

- John Perkins, American poet of the 20th-21st century

[Surf n Turf]

Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices, Rise on the rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, and rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale
Ill-starred now the brave, did no vision foreboding, Tell you that fate had forsaken our cause?
Yet were you destined to die at Culloden, though victory crowned not your fall with applause.
Yet were you happy in death's earthly slumber, To sleep wi' your clan in the caves of Braemar. The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number, Your deeds to the echoes of wild Lochnagar.
Lord George Gordon Byron - 1807

[Go Devil]

God of War

To break from her corrupt gaze is to live a life of peace and to harvest the fruit of life.

Sublime is her call; deceit pours like syrup from her full mouth.

I have followed her with multitudes of other young men, beating our chests, and pining for her hot soft skin.

Her touch is a haunting, and a horror in the night.

Her bosom is the grave.

[mojaveman]

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

Liked the last part. Kipling truely was one of the great protagonists of the British Empire. Does history really repeat itself?

[Razor]

Opportunity

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel --
That blue blade that the king's son bears -- but this
Blunt thing!" He snapt and flung it from his hand,
And, lowering, crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

- Edward R. Sill

[Richard]

The Tear in His Eye

The veteran represents a nation proud and strong;
Inspiring her to do what is right and not what's wrong.
Sadly he sits, and we are wondering as to why
This soldier of old has a tear in his eye.

Watching with disbelief so quietly, brave, and tall;
The nation he fought for is together for the good of all.
This obscured enemy will eventually learn about defeat
As God guides his nation back on her feet.

This veteran has witnessed her sufferings in the past -
Wars, assassinations, and the Oklahoma blast.
Now, we need not wonder why there's a tear in his eye,
As he watches the devastation that started in the sky.

The lives lost in Pennsylvania, Manhattan, and DC
Will not have died in vain, on this we all will agree.
So, to the veteran with the tear glistening in his eye,
We ask that you not worry on us you can rely.

The battles he fought helped mold us today;
The tear in his eye will now be wiped away.
His nation will comfort this veteran of old,
As the facts of what happened begin to unfold.

- Phyllis Hardin

[greenberetTFS]

Memorial Day

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings today.
The road is rhythmic with the feet.
Of men -at-arms who come to pray.

The rose blossoms white and red,
On tombs where weary soldiers lie,
Flags wave above the honored dead,
And martial music cleaves the sky.

Above the wreath- strewn graves we knell,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel,
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.

May we,their grateful children learn,
Their strength,who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to learn,
At last the accolade of God.

In shining rank on rank arrayed,
They march,the legions of the Lord,
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace........Who brought a sword.

GB TFS

[TOMAHAWK9521]

God and the Soldier we adore
In times of trouble and not before
The danger passed and all things righted
God is forgotten and the soldier slighted.

-Kipling

[metelliana]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

-- Ezra Pound

[frostfire]

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...

But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Alan Seeger*, 1888–1916
la Légion étrangère

*He joined French Foreign Legion to fight for the Allies as America did not enter the war until 1917

[levinj]

Gentleman-Rankers. Won't post the whole thing, as it's one of Kipling's longer poems, but here's the end:

We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.
We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!