Sunday, 7 June 2009

A POEM FOR D-DAY

THE D-DAY REMEMBRANCE BLUES

By Ishmael Smith and the ghost of Rudyard Kipling

Oh, it's Gordon this and Gordon that
And Gordon knows the route
But he's hiding in the toilet
When the guns begin to shoot
The guns begin to shoot, me lads, the guns begin to shoot,
Gordon's whistlin' Colonel Bogey, when the guns begin to shoot.
And he's munching on his mucus and chewing at his nails
Snotman between Obama and the Prince of fucking Wales.

The Prince of Fucking Wales, me lads,
The Prince of fucking Wales
Don't go messing wiv His Highness
The Prince of fucking Wales
For his patience often fails, me lads, his patience often fails.
If his toothpaste ain't squeezed right, me lads, his patience often fails.
And some men was born to fight and die, to poverty and strife
But he was born to fuck about with someone else's wife.

And it's President Obama,
He's the man who'll save the day
He'll take all of your bonny lads
And send them all away
He'll send them all away, me lads, he'll send them all away
To spill their guts in Fuzzistan
For ever and a day.
Forever and a day, me lads, forever and a day,
We'll send our lads to fight his wars, forever and a day.
For we're Uncle Sam's best stooges
And it always was the same
We stood alone in 'thirty-nine until he finally came.
And if the little yellow bastards hadn't sunk his bathtime toys
We'd all be speaking German now,
Blonde-headed little boys.
It was Tommy then, who kept you safe
And the Few young men in Blue
While Uncle Sam made up his mind
About what he should do,
About what he should do, me lads, about what he should do
And now he stands and lectures us, the Froggy bastard, too


But what of bleeding Tommy, his legs all blown away?
His guns don't shoot, his boots don't fit.
It's never Tommy's day,
It's never Tommy's day, me lads, it's never Tommy's day
And Secketary Ainsworth, he's a man what runs away,
A man what runs away me lads, your life is in his hands
While he blusters in the commons, there, in Never-Never land.

And they won't come to your funeral
Where the lonesome bugles play
But they'll stand there at the Cenotaph on a cold Remembrance Day
And wearing stolen poppies that they was too mean to buy
The right honourables' compassion is just a bloody lie
For none of 'em would come to stand, with you or me or Wayne,
For they're all too bleedin' precious to die abroad, in vain.
They're all too bleeding precious, lads, to fight, like you and me
It's quite a job of work to do, bein' an MP,
Bein' an MP, me lads, being an MP,
It's a protected occupation, is bein' an MP.
There's Cleggie and his wankers
And Cameron and his thieves
And Gordons useless bastards
Troughing like you'd not believe
Troughing like you'd not believe, me lads,
They know not guilt or shame
And every bleedin' Wednesday, they're abusing Tommy's name.

So let's raise a glass to Gordon, for Gordon is the man
To show us all the way to go, out there in no-man's land;
You won't find him in your dug-out, firing, down on bended knee
He'll be at home in safety, writing books on bravery
Books on bravery, me lads, books on bravery
He'll be hiding in his bunker, writing books on bravery.

So let us raise three boos, me lads,
For this Ruin of a man
Defy him once, defy him thrice, defy him all we can.
For he squandered all the money , he burnt it, by degrees
And his only plan in life is to bring others to their knees
others to their knees, me lad, others to their knees
That's how his father raised him
To bring others to their knees.

And as we stand here and remember,
Let us make a vow, good men,
And never let this bastard be prime minister again.
For waste and desperation come a-trailing in his wake
And Ruin and Desolation are all that he can make,
All that he can make, me lads, all that he can make;
For Ruin and Desolation are all that he can make.
Let him put his moral compass
Where the Sun don't ever shine,
And don't believe a word he tells you
For he's spinning you a line.

Let us put this motherfucker, lads, up against the wall
Let us start with him but never rest until we've stood them all,
They're a dreadful bunch of vermin
And they'd all be better dead
For they've taken Hope and Charity and stood them on their head
Stood them on their heads, me lads, stood them on their heads
They're a dreadful bunch of vermin and they'd all be better dead.


Oh, it's Gordon this and Gordon that
And Gordon knows the route
But he's hiding in the toilet
When the guns begin to shoot
The guns begin to shoot me lads, the guns begin to shoot,
Gordon's whistlin' Colonel Bogey, when the guns begin to shoot
And he's munching on his mucus and chewing at his nails
Snotman between Obama and the Prince of fucking Wales.

21 comments:

woman on a raft said...

Every time I think you've said it all, you shock me by saying it new.

Goodnight Vienna said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Mercian said...

Brilliant! Well played that man.

Goodnight Vienna said...

That is so good - absolutely fantastic. I've done a teaser sending readers over to you.

Ruth Kelly's plaything said...

Superb: thank you.

I love Kipling (a great and underrated craftsman, IMHO)and, in the circs, believe that he would approve of what you've done.

Ruth Kelly's plaything said...

Oh, and thanks to G Vienna - I picked up the link from Guido's place.

Anonymous said...

That is tremendous.

T' Old 'un said...

Well done. It's ruddy hard kipling.

Pip said...

Thanks G Vienna for linking to this poem.
It should be carved on a stone and presented to the M.O.D. as a reminder of where their duties lay.
I hope arrse read these blogs.

Anonymous said...

My uncle who was at D-day for real would have loved this poem - he would have been disgusted beyond belief that his comrades who died in the bocage did so that they may be represented by an autistic dribbling idiot 65 years later. This is our Captain Queeg moment....any good GP will section him.

Borderpoint said...

For the best part of a month, we have had no practical government. Oddly, there has been no rioting through the streets, no looting, no roaming gangs of drug-crazed, murderous hippies slewing 4x4s around litter-blown, inner-city desolation. How about we just bring the soldiers back home, close up the government shop, and see what develops?
That was an impressive piece of work, Mr Ishamel.

Grumpy grandad said...

Oustanding. Congratulations. I too have advertised it far and wide..

Verge said...

...When you're wounded and bleeding on Parliament Green
And the WAGs come out shrieking to cut out your spleen
And the people are crying out something obscene:
Time to fuck off to Fife like a Feartie.

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, this would also serve well for the HFB; not a remix, this one, and I doubt he'd understand it, but still...William Empson:

Let It Go

It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.
The more things happen to you the more you can't
Tell or remember even what they were.

The contradictions cover such a range.
The talk would talk and go so far aslant.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.

bergen said...

Really good stuff.Far more than mere parody.Congratulations.

Dick the Prick said...

Cheers man. Well, they flunked it - hmm, guess that's democracy and shit but really, it seems like they're getting training to shoot themselves in the foot and force a Tory gove on us; nope, right a bit, left a bit, down a bit - that's right, aim - fire! Ejeets to a man.

black hole sunset said...

Thanks Mr Ishmael.

Not read much myself, just odds and ends of philosophy, the rest by osmosis and self-assembly.

It's nice to have interesting stuff pointed out.

call me ishmael said...

TOMMY

by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)



I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!


----------------------------

I would like to join with the prime minister in expressing my regrets over the death of Tommy Atkins st the weekend and I am sure the whole house will agree with me when I say Better ten thousand of him than one of us; too fucking right, hear-hear; the ayes have it, the ayes have it.

Anonymous said...

Working on a wee version for next jam - fucking cracker, stan.

jgm2 said...

More genius. I mean I have all the time in the world but I still couldn't be bothered nor indeed, find the words to equal that.

Keep fighting the good fight.

The Dyer's Garden said...

What is next: "The Young British MP"?