There was a young lady from Penge, Who went for a pee on Stonehenge. She'd just passed her fluid When up popped a Druid And spat in her eye for revenge! Dear God...It's the way I tell 'em!
hahahaha... I was thinking something a little bit more serious, but it's all good. Nice avatar, Historian.
Well, I'll raise the tone with one of my favourites from the Battle of Britain, inspired by the 'Saucepans Into Spitfires' propaganda : - 'My saucepans have all been surrendered, The teapot is gone from the hob, The colander's leaving the cabbage, For a very much different job. So now, when I hear on the wireless Of Hurricanes showing their mettle, I see, in a vision before me, A Dornier chased by my kettle.' Elsie Cawser Salvage Song ( or : The Housewife's Dream )
No apology necessary...this isn't the thread and it probably will be the funniest thing I will read all day... I was wondering about that pic...I didn't see it in the avatar list.
WW2 poetry has been very much overshadowed by that of WW1. On second thoughts, better not start a thread - I've got loads of stuff here by Alun Lewis ( killed in Burma ), Keith Douglas ( killed in Normandy ) etc etc....
I still do enjoy a good poem, related to WW2 or not...it would be interesting to see poems from different cultures.
Ike, Yeah I got this from the avatar list, so can't claim any originality, I'm afraid! Did I see Vic Morrow and the cast of Combat! in there too? Regards, Gordon
Really couldn't tell you... Here's one I found that I thought was interesting...not WW2-related though.
"This Is Just To Say" I have eaten the plums that were in the ice box and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold William Carlos Williams Later
Risking wearing my fingers out - another one I like ( for all the re-enactors out there ): - 'I've learned to wash in petrol tins, and shave myself in tea Whilst balancing the fragments of a mirror on my knee I've learned to dodge the 88s; and flying lumps of lead And to keep a foot of sand between a Stuka and my head I've learned to keep my ration-bag crammed full of buckshee food And to take my Army ration, and to pinch what else I could I've learned to cook my bully-beef with candle-ends and string In an empty petrol can - or any other thing I've learned to use my jack-knife for anything I please A bread-knife, or a chopper, or a prong for toasting cheese I've learned to gather souvenirs, that home I hoped to send And hump them round for months and months, and dump them in the end But one day when this blooming war is just a memory I'll laugh at all these troubles, when I'm drifting o'er the sea But until that longed-for day arrives, I'll have to be content With bully-beef and rice and prunes, and sleeping in a tent.' Norman Trapnell, 'Lament Of A Desert Rat' .
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. Randall Jarrell Later
Not a great one for poetry, but I love Keith Douglas's stuff. One of the war poets we did at school that actually stayed with me, never mawkish, somewhat cold even: Cheers, Adam.
