Jan 2017
I WILL NOT CEASE FROM MENTAL FIGHT
"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush
us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"
"Snipers!"
"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.
"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.
Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.
( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).
Or the *** in
the garden shed
which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.
"The bleedy blighter
got away!"
They had followed him
home from Flanders.
Or just...
never went away.
Mother said he'd
lost his....
but he'd play
marbles with us
kids
all day.
Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce
"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.
"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.
We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.
"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.
He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"
but only when he be-
-came squiffy
which was more
than often!
Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"
But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.
A chorus of us kids
belting out:
"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary
but now I know how!"
"War is all about
saving your skin!"
Most of his mates
lost theirs.
He still calls them
by their names
as if they are
just...there.
"The ghosts of the sofa!"
They sit and watch
the radio with him.
"Manchester Utd 2 -"
He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.
Left his left leg
in a trench
but still loves
to dance.
"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before
no less...no more!"
More and more
often he hides
under the stairs
eating raspberry jam
or marmalade
in the dark
crying now
in English.
Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.
He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"
And loudly the cupboard
it sings.
"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face
is..."
(Fred lost his...)
I always remember him
coming out to salute
surrender to us
as he recites
in a little child's voice.
"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta
you'll never get yer *******
in a corn beef can."
"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush
us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"
"Snipers!"
"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.
"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.
Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.
( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).
Or the *** in
the garden shed
which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.
"The bleedy blighter
got away!"
They had followed him
home from Flanders.
Or just...
never went away.
Mother said he'd
lost his....
but he'd play
marbles with us
kids
all day.
Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce
"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.
"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.
We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.
"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.
He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"
but only when he be-
-came squiffy
which was more
than often!
Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"
But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.
A chorus of us kids
belting out:
"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary
but now I know how!"
"War is all about
saving your skin!"
Most of his mates
lost theirs.
He still calls them
by their names
as if they are
just...there.
"The ghosts of the sofa!"
They sit and watch
the radio with him.
"Manchester Utd 2 -"
He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.
Left his left leg
in a trench
but still loves
to dance.
"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before
no less...no more!"
More and more
often he hides
under the stairs
eating raspberry jam
or marmalade
in the dark
crying now
in English.
Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.
He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"
And loudly the cupboard
it sings.
"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face
is..."
(Fred lost his...)
I always remember him
coming out to salute
surrender to us
as he recites
in a little child's voice.
"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta
you'll never get yer *******
in a corn beef can."
