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.