As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "****!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.
'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?
Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows -- Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, -- nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.
So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.
So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for -- it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".
Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, -- that's where the fun began.
For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)
My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.
We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet ******;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps -- well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-******.
Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do".
As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive --
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that ***;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".
And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that matter -- your car or the newest play. . . .

Ya’ll ****. (Myself included, I said everybody, didn’t I)?
Forbes, a magazine for rich wannabes, says:
85 people control half of the world’s wealth (yet, nobody obsesses)
In my rural hometown alone,
that’d be the equivalent of a disembodied ****** hole
calling all the shots from a platinum throne inside the town hall
“Keep plowing! Keep selling! PLLLLLPPPPPP!
Sop up my **** with all those Benjamins, and bring the Russian ballet in!”
In between **** and brain rotters, everyone else watches ******,
with his handsome silk hat on,
shake hands with the petty bourgeoisie in suits
Little lap dogs
licking up all the slimy brown Franklins

Spelling hath bought me much indigestion
Somehow all the letters don't rightly gel
One should heed the dictionary alarm bell
Then all my words would be of correction
Guessing about spelling is my approach
Friends and others point to these gross errors
On all my pages they look like terrors
Each mistake is a bothersome cockroach
Ever the plaguing bug stays so merrily
Twill overcome these ghastly rotters
More attention to detail I'll install
All letters shall be arranged prettily
Not ever can one abide such plotters
In future days proper spelling shall call

Left home in the morning
Excited to spend the day with friends
Aware of the fact that i need to be home
Much Before the sun sets.

Not because i had to rest well For my exam tomorrow,
Not because i had to go to work early,
It was because we live in a society
Where i could be ***** if i walked home alone,
When it is dark already..

I am getting cold feet
As am walking alone towards my home
I see him walking towards me

"You are a piece of meat for me,"
Told he,

I start running
I am panting
He runs behind me faster
Grabs me,slaps me and drags me
Drags me into the bushes
Helplessly i resent

Thats when i wake up
I wake up disturbed
I am perspiring
Thinking what a **** victim must have underwent!

Remember
It is not your fault
Because you wore a short
It can't be a reason for assault
They are debaucher
They don't need a reason
They just need a prey.
And We need to deal with them,straightaway.

Though we are walking alone
We can't be a victim
Our life cant come to a standstill
For few scoundrels

Lets Stand up for ourselves
Learn to fight
Be bold
Lets just not moan..

we need to make this world a better place for our daughters
We need to get rid of these rotters

WE NEED TO GET RID OF THESE ROTTERS!

The Harvest of Life Exchanging Itself

     “May I help you?” – More busy in my voice than hurried. A woman points to a quart of peaches she's been studying.  “Sure of herself.” I had been thinking,  “She won't buy anything else.”
Such delicate fruit—one at a time they must be placed in the brown paper bags. I've gotten quick at it.  Then the Standard: “Couple of those are pretty hard yet; Leave 'em out overnight in that bag, and they'll be ready to eat... Anything else?”

     “No nothing more,” small shake of her head.

     Late afternoon at The Farmer's Night Market in Scranton-- the intense bustle of of the early day over –  with its frenzy of bills and change and bags; a new line of faces every sixty seconds, waiting to be waited on.  Questions, peering, turning the fruit to see if one side's as good as the other, and it always is as the Michaels sell only premium fruit at their stand, where I've been “City Help” for two years.

     “No, we won't have cider till after Labor Day when the Miltons come in.”  Funny, I'm starting to sound like a farmer – even know the apples by their different tastes, appearances, and order of ripeness.  There are summer apples, fall, and the winter keepers; and a smaller, rather homely variety, MacCowans, are the best for eating.  I like Cortlands myself.  They remind me of making pies with my mother – the smell of dough and apple skins – the little scavengers waiting for the cores

     The customers have thinned now, scurrying like loaded pack mules – off to their trunks and station wagons.  I can even read their minds!  They're planning dinners, canning pickles!  Roasting corn for cook-outs, planning novel ways to prepare the bounty.  I know these things.  I've been a customer for twenty years from mid-July till Thanksgiving.

     Wiping my sweaty forearms on my jeans, I try to get rid of the prickly-itch of peach fuzz – small price to pay for the afternoons's sweetness.  Then leaning back against some crates, I watch the edges of the canvas shelters flap – storm later?  This place, I was thinking, not much changed from the markets a hundred years ago-- the gathering of life to exchange itself.  We city folk – dependent, fume breathers and asphalt beaters.  Machine-like, silly with wealth or lack; paying, playing, dining out – driving our bad-*** cars toward some goal – never enough – just to wait for old age on the steps of “check day”  Not that farmers don't have their desperate years.  Weather can't be trusted, and there's always the hosts of gnawers, crawlers, and rotters – the unexpected that comes with living things whether cows or turnips.

     I've seen it here: life exchanging itself.  The early yellows and greens of lettuce, squash, beans, and berries; ripening to August corn, tomatoes, and feathery bunches of dill.  Then descent with cooler days to pears and apples, corn, and squash. Late September brings the Indian corn and pumpkins, cider, bushels of potatoes, frosted concord grapes, and zany gourds.

     With the return of Standard Time, come the bare bulbs that light the stands of produce.  At Ruth's the sign reads: “Order Your Capon Here.”  There are hams and roasts and sausage for stuffing.  The winter apples – “Stock up NOW!”  Ideas for holiday decorations; recipes exchanged.  Bushels and bushels for the canners!  And, one farmer sells those branches, heavy with scarlet winter berries for the city doors...  “We close the Wednesday before Thanksgiving”  I always buy those berries.

Good-byes are brisk and sweet – cold breath steams the air.  City and country marking their seasons –  their lives by the market.  The warm greetings of July, “So good to see you again!”
...Marking their lives.  Our children grow so much between the markets.  Generations exchange.  This co-op started eighty years ago, 1939.  For so long, it was the last and only, farmer-owned, open-air market in Pennsylvania.  

     Generations born; some pass or retire in the winter.  Nancy never seems any older than her smile.

     The vegetables always look the same – they're not.  They are the children of last year's veggies.  I suppose if I were to come here for the first time, I would think everything hereå has always been this way.  And, perhaps, I wouldn't be so wrong.  It really didn't seem so different or so long ago in late October when I first watched the farmers huddled around kerosene heaters in parkas, rubbing their hands together, drinking soup and coffee to warm them – stamping a little – pulling off their gloves, reluctant to handle the freezing change.

     “Can I help ya?”
     “Yes... Where's the best place to store potatoes for the winter?...I'll take that one...Yeah, You got it!”

     Dust rose from the spuds, tumbling from the basket to paper bag, and I propped them in my red wagon on one side of my infant daughter.  She was bundled in a plaid wool blanket and wedged between the corn and apples.  Her cheeks were pink with cold in the midst of orange, red and yellow – the colors of life exchanging itself.

The gangsters of Crimson
tell us please about this Doubts malarkey
oh you Guvnor of the Eat End Mob

ye Gotcha, come listen..matey

we ain't Crooks, Con-artists and Extortioners for nothing
we are smart cookies, been in this game all our lives
listen matey, hear me
know what we said, slander is the main leveler
That patsy we have the contract on
the man is as straight as dye
innocent as the day is born
never did a thing wrong, no dirt did we find on him
decent nice upright upstanding fellow
as nice as apple pie and iced cream

But he had the gull to diss our trade
yes we are thieves and crooks and all time rotters
but he said he would expose us after we robbed the ******
others don't say ****, just claim insurance and shut their gob
but not this sunshine, the ****** called us out
he din't pay protection money
then moaned when we rob him blind, now he gets the treatment
don't mess with the Guvnor ye Mr Righteous

We have ways, first thing is to discredit the ******
its Character assassination, public humiliation, we ruin his life
so we slandered him from here to Timbuktu or where the darkies are
we told high tales and hyped the hell outta that patsy
you know how good the ******* are in spreading malicious gossips
we paid their leaders and sent them all out
wow! did they do a good job or what. it went down a treat
the punters swallowed every word, every defamation stuck like glue
even his mother would find it hard to love him
hahaha...think he could stand up to us

after all that malarkey and mud throwing
we now have to stalk and hound the ****** and make him loose his mind
Now listen here, you just can't go to the stupid punters
and say, hound that man, they ain't that stupid
so you give em a good story, nice fake news in juicy wrapper
you create a false scenario, nice word eh, got that from the TV
anyways, you sell the dopes some fake scenario
then tell them you are controlling the mud splatter royal star
tell the dopes anytime they see him they must do this or that
you get the demoralising mob trolls to write dirges and *******
till the day is long, tell them they are putting doubts in his mind
planting seeds to haze, hanker and give the ****** grieve
cause they are confusing him, as well as invalidating the c--t

You see bozos, what we are doing is relentlessly mobbing him
getting at him, snipping and chipping away, wearing him down
make him feel the whole world is against him
leave him isolated, friendless, hounded and helpless
we must make him **** himself for he is a non-criminal grass
and that's how we sort those goodie two shoes out
we poison their world till they poison themselves
we use the punters to drive him insane

Ah, clever or what, who says crooks and villains aren't clever
we are manipulating the stupid masses and they are eating outta our hands
we make them believe false scenario, get the numpties to do silliness
watch how they go for it, all convinced they are doing solidarity
listen my son, the only education you need is no ******* university
come learn from us, the people or punters, call em what you will
are as dumb and brainless as jellied eels
You steal their brains and their stupid minds
an tell them you are teaching them how to **** royal mind
they can't wait to cast 'doubts' on fuckall nothing doing

We know the game, we know the punters
that poor patsy hasn't got a chance
I tell you what though
this contract is the hardest we've ever done
we've put this ****** through the mill for yonks
given the whole nine yards and more to push him over the edge
Yet, the ******* still stands, laugh and even talk back
******* heck, this man must be an alien.......