306 – (Traditional)

Poem number 306
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(Traditional)
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They’ve gone to fetch the hangman, gone to fetch the noose
They’ve gone to fetch the hangman
They’ve gone to fetch the noose
They’ve gone to fetch the hangman, gone to fetch that noose
And when its round my scrawny neck I ain’t never getting loose
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And when they’ve fetched that hangman, well I guess that’s all she wrote
When they’ve fetched the hangman
I guess that’s all she wrote
When they’ve fetched that hangman, well I guess that’s all she wrote
When they’ve fetched that hangman and that noose is round my throat
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I might just tell the hangman I feel bad for what I done
I might just tell the hangman
We was only making fun
I might just tell the hangman I feel bad for what I done
And maybe that old hangman’ll let me see another sun
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But now I hear that hangman, with his bible and his psalm
Now I hear the hangman
With his noose there on his arm
Now I hear the hangman with his bible and his psalm
Sweet Jesus here’s the hangman and he’s come to do me harm
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They went and fetched the hangman, went and fetched that noose
They went and fetched the hangman
Went and fetched that noose
They went and fetched the hangman, went and fetched that noose
And now its round my scrawny neck I ain’t never getting loose
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And now it’s round my scrawny neck
I ain’t ever getting loose.

308 – C3PO’s Fever

Poem number 308
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C3PO’s Fever
(With apologies to Masefield)
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The rust goes down to my knees again, I can only see from one eye
I called to ask for new silicone chips but I hear not one reply;
And my heel’s split and my chin’s gone and the right hip’s shaking,
And a flayed fist and a peeled face, and my grey diodes breaking.
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The rust goes down to my knees again, when I fall I get dents in my side
If a wild fall or severe fall then circuits break inside;
I called to ask for a solder iron but they said I wasn’t dying
And my sprung jaw and the blown fuse, and the seized up joints crying.
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The rust goes down to my knees again, with the fragrant droid-rot rife
With the dull decay and the failing way that my pins cause fetid strife
I called to ask for some darning yarn from our depot down in dover
But a quiet line and a silent scream and my brain has gone, it’s over.

309 – Barbed Wire

Poem number 309
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Barbed Wire
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I wandered lonely as a clown
Through fields of cow-poo muddy brown
While all at once I caused to frown
When barbed-wire blocked my way.
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Atop a fence of splintered oak
I thought at first it was a joke
But no, a faded sign it spoke
That trespassers would pay.
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Inflamed, my hiker’s heart with ire
I took my clippers, snipped the wire
I heard a nearby rifle fire
I dived into the hay
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I lay in fear of violent doom
The rifle loosed a second boom
The dust beside my groin did plume
My old chap blown away
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I crawled back then to whence I’d been
And since that date I’m not so keen
To wander through sweet England green
On sunny days in May
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Instead I sit at home and weep
Insidious, the nightmares creep
Of those who held my manhood cheap
When barbed-wire blocked my way.

424 – Sonnet 424

Poem 424

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Sonnet 424

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Our love is as a slice of steaming pie

Triangular and full of hot rabbit,

The gravy of thy soul flow’d past mine eye

Oh how fortunate was I to grab it

How easy ‘twould have been for other men

To have supp’d upon your sweet season’d sauce,

To have impress’d you with their spoon and then

Forlorn, my life set out on alter’d course

Oh mercy then, dear heaven’s fair remark

That I should be the one to chew your crust

That we two in ceramic bowl embark’d

Together from hot pie to pastry dust

.       Thou art sublime in meat, and carrot chew’d

.       The oven baked pie and our love ensued.

440 – The Honourable Day

Poem number 440

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The Honourable Day

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A Eulogy

Read By Pastor S. Heets

Duram Light Infantry

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We gather today to mourn our comrades

Our brothers. We stand here in deep sorrow

But we stand. As this day ends and light fades

We stand. They fell to give us tomorrow,

A tomorrow that they will never see,

Our brothers. Good Tommies all. They are gone,

But what a grand tomorrow it shall be

If through their own deaths their dreams can live on.

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Their dream were our dreams. They dreamt of a rest

From the harvest. An end to the slaughter.

Days in the garden where our very best

Need not fear the knives. The board. The water.

Where our children do not wake in the black

And scream after nightmares of oil and pans.

Where we need not fear the man with the sack

Nor dread the feel of his leather clad hands.

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This was their dream. They died to prove its worth

So now we will carry on in their name.

All of their names. Our brothers of the earth.

If we cry for them we will feel no shame

For mourning is a part of life. And death.

And from our grief we draw the strength to fight

And if, like them, it costs us our last breath

Then so be it. An honourable night

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Comes only from an honourable day.

We honour all who today gave their life.

We honour all those who were boiled away

We honour those who died under the knife

We honour the stewed, the chewed and the chopped

We honour all who’ve learned The Martyr’s ways

We honour all those whose life has been stopped

Today. At the Battle Of Bolognese.