A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!

I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.

Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****,
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of *moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.

For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.

With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.

you don't want to ***** this newness with yourself
you lie
half-woken, a story
slipping in vomitous avalanche
of nowness, mourning
on a stack of crumpled sheets

night-stuck whiteness, imagining all
the games you might play
if you were to forget
your age: shaking
all that powder into the cracks
of your muscadet
dry skin
notes of apples,
saline

weather-woman, with her green screen showmanship
had not portended this outcome
this modern diviner you hold in high esteem

you always liked the way magicians seemed
to make something out of nothing
(a rabbit from a tophat gap, coins out of earlobes)
and winter is sort of like that, too
you wake up and everything is blanketed, you don't remember
the process, how it all got there
a snowshoe hare leaps
like she formed right on the snowbank
paper that came pre-sketched
free of gestation

beneath the avalanche muscadet turns to claret
but we can't see it happening
for miles and miles a blank page
what dies under the heel of perfection
a magician never reveals his secrets

Apéro chez Yves
Towards place de jacobins I weave
On parle à batons rompus
You envy me, I envy you
Les yeux honnêtes de votre femme
Invite me in to join her clan
Du piano vous tirez la voix de Brahms
I recline, completely charmed
C'est aussi doux que vous, ce muscadet
No finer way to pass a day
Qu'un apéro chez Yves