Bless ‘em all

by | Apr 9, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

‘ere ‘oos that talkin in the ranks, shuddup yew ‘orrib1e man,
doncher ‘no yer on p’rade, ‘n git that grin orf yer b1eedin pan,
an stop that b1eedin twi’chin, yew got St. Vitis dance,
dress forwerd the fird man thare, wake hup, yew in a bleedin trance, c..e….
Stan still an suck yer gut in, pull yer sho1ders back,
‘oo the b1eedin ‘ell showed yew ‘ow ter square a b1eedin pack.
Nah then, wen yew gits the horder, 1issen up reel good,
an step aht wiv yer 1ef foot, smart like, yer not made of b1eedin wood.
Right, ‘ere cums the Or’d1y Ossifer, let’s be ‘avin no b1eedin stunts,
Jesus take a look at ‘im, NOT YEW, look ter yer b1eedin front.

Good morning Sarn’t Major, isn’t it a lovely day,
are the men ready for inspection, good, let’s get it under way.
Well done Sarn’t Major, they really are first class,
perhaps when training’s over we could manage a weekend pass.

Nah then yew lot, yew ‘erd ‘is b1eedin nibs, nah doan get no brite ideers,
an’ go ‘ritin ‘ome ter mummy, as ‘ow I’m givin yer the geers,
‘cos wen yew fin’ly leave ‘ere, its a soljer yer’ll be,
an ‘oo will yew ave ter fank fer hit, I’ll tell yer son, it’s ME.


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