Micky Boy

by | Jan 1, 2006 | Poetry | 0 comments

The cooling breeze of their passage,
It felt so bloody good,
So Micky raised his visor,
To glory in the flow of desert air.

Lead Rover: top-cover. Minimi to hand,
Convoy escort: Shaibah to Basra,
Fly the flag: show ’em all who’s boss,
Well, we all here know who’s boss and it ain’t us!

Tour almost over. Thoughts turn
To Germany: beer, vodka and Heike.
She’ll get a right royal seein’ to.
Then I’ll put me cases down!

Nation building, democracy and freedom:
Just so much blah blah blah.
Take of our all why dontcha. Cheers easy. Keep it comin’.
Just get outta here but, take me too.

At a quarter past eleven,
Give or take a sec,
The front bumper of the Rover
Broke an electronic beam.

Shiny and new: fresh in from Iran, the off-route nine
Detonated just as Micky passed.
Inside the Rover, all was shredded.
From his pelvis downwards, Micky too.

It’s alright mate: chopper’s comin’,
Is that you Mum? Why’s it so cold in bloody summer?
Bloody summer in Iraq: no glory.
And Micky boy has no guts.


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *