The Instructor

by | Jan 1, 2006 | Poetry | 0 comments

Oh my gawd he’s ere again
our nemesis our daily bane
All instructors do is shout
I wish he’d go and turn about

Here we go now “line up then”
he marches up says “right then men”
“We’ll have a spot of drill today”
hope he breaks his leg we pray

Up and down we’d bloody go
hell for leather in rain or snow
Standing there his stick just pointing
swearwords on our heads anointing

But spare a moment for this man
for all his knowledge and what it spanned
His turnout every day so fine
far better than Fred or Bill or mine

If he was there to turf us out
at 0500 or there about
What time did he get up today?
blinking early is all I’d say

And when we passed out on the square
did I see pride escape just there?
Was that a smile of satisfaction?
knowing he’d made us “men of action”

But when we’d gone to pastures new
another intake another crew
They’d start arriving more new faces
he’d put them through their bloody paces

And when he’s old and thinking through
the times he’s had the boys he knew
I hope he smiles once more again
you did us proud your lads are men

So as I finish this final chapter
there’s no one like a real instructor
They’d show us how it’s done each time
shinning, perfect, dead in line.

As odd as it may sound or seem
I thank you all “The Training Team”
As when we work so well as one
It’s all from what you people done


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