-
British Army Poems
Tommy
They flew me 'ome from Baghdad with a bullet in me chest.
Cos they've closed the army 'ospitals, I'm in the NHS.
The nurse, she ain't no Britisher an' so she ain't impressed.
It's like I'm some street corner thug who's come off second best.
Yes, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "You're not welcome 'ere".
But when Saddam was collar'd, they was quick enough to cheer.
They're proud when Tommy Atkins 'olds the thin red line out there,
But now he's wounded back at 'ome, he has to wait for care.
Some stranger in the next bed sez, "Don't you feel no shame?
You kill my Muslim brothers!" So it's me not 'im to blame!
An' then the cleaner ups an' sez "Who are you fightin' for?
It ain't for Queen and country 'cos it's Bush's bloody war!"
It's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, what's that smell?"
But it's "God go with you, Tommy," when they fly us out to 'ell.
O then we're just like 'eroes from the army's glorious past.
Yes, it's "God go with you, Tommy," when the trip might be your last.
They pays us skivvy wages, never mind we're sitting ducks,
When clerks what's pushing pens at 'ome don't know their flippin' luck.
"Ah, yes" sez they "but think of all the travel to be 'ad."
Pull the other one. Does Cooks do 'olidays in Baghdad ?
It's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, know your place,"
But it's "Tommy, take the front seat," when there's terrorists to chase.
An' the town is full of maniacs who'd like you dead toot sweet.
Yes, it's "Thank you, Mr Atkins," when they find you in the street.
There's s'pposed to be a covynant to treat us fair an' square
But I 'ad to buy me army boots, an' me combats is threadbare.
An' 'alf the bloody 'elicopters can't get into the air,
An' me pistol jammed when snipers fired. That's why I'm laid up 'ere.
Yes, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, "We 'ave to watch the pence";
Bold as brass the P.M. sez, "We spare them no expense."
"But I'll tell you when they do us proud an' pull out all the stops,
It's when Tommy lands at Lyneham in a bloomin' wooden box!
-Written by Patrick Campbell RM
-
I feel a Red Curtain Of Blood™ moment coming on...
-
-
Thought I'd change this to a general British Army poem thread by adding another I found in the comments of a youtube video of all places!
When you're lying alone in your Afghan bivy bag,
& your life depends on some MOD civy.
When the armour is shared (1 between 3),
And the fights not like it is on TV,
Then you'll look to your OPPO, your gun & your God,
As you follow that path all tommies have trod.
When the Gimpy has jammed & ur down to one round,
& the faith that u'd lost is suddenly found.
When the Taliban horde is close up the fort,
& U pray that the arty won't drop a round short
& fight them like satan or 1 of this brood
U pay it won't cover ur needs or ur wants,
So just stand there & take all the Taliban taunts
Nor Generals nor civies can do aught to amed it.
Exept make sure ur kept in a place u can't spend it.
3.30 an hr in ur Afghani cage,
Not nearly as much as minimum wage.
Ur misses at home in a foul married quarter
With damp on the walls at a roof leaking water.
Ur kids miss their m8, their Hero, their Dad;
Their missing the childhood that they should of had.
One day it will be different, 1day by & by,
As U stand there & watch, 2 see the pigs fly.
Just like ur forebears in mud, dust & ditch.
U'll march & U'll fight, & U'll drink & bitch.
Whether Froggy or Zulu, or Jerry, or Boer.
The Brits will fight on 'til the battle is over.
U may treat him like dirt, but nowt will unnerve him.
But I wonder, sometimes, if the country deserves him.
-
Spot on Bob who ever wrote this has a intimate knowledge of the average UK warrior.
