Barry of the Depot

Here's one of mine. Hope some on here can relate to the sentiment of looking back at times gone by (with just a tint of rose!):

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the NAAFI years ago;
He was soldiering when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Barry, of The Depot."

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected
(And I think the same was written with a combi-tool dipped in tar);
'Twas his section mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Barry's gone to Iraq roving, and we don't know where he are."

In my wild erratic fancy, visions come to me of Barry
Gone a-roving down the Border where the Maysan rovers go;
With the Scimitars slowly stringing, Barry rides upon them singing,
For the soldier's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the desert has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the brook upon its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plain extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads it foulness over all.

And in place of Bedouin cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street;
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me,and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Barry,
Like to take a turn at roving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
But I doubt he's suit the office, Barry, of The Depot.

P.W, Christmas 2011, Worcester


Book Reviewer
HA HA. Mark nailed the Poetry thieving swine. Also has revealed his deep love of poetry, now safely filed away for future piss taking in the NAAFI

Mark The Convict

Les' direct (and only) ancestor, but we prefer not to discuss it. Discretion, you see.
Ah Sir Les, a fine upstanding 'member' of the Australian Diplomatic Corps. I had the honour of meeting the Cultural Ambassador on one of his many fact-finding missions to the Pink Pussy-cat club in Soho where he frequently showed great concern for his countrywomen who were working their passages home. He was charm and whit personified, and very free with the Embassy's impress. Obviously he called me a four-eyed Pommy bastard and questioned my sexuality which was only to be expected, but I felt he had a special bond with the girls, so much so that he invited several over to stay in his residence, or as he referred to it 'my bachelor shag-pad'

When Sir Les pops his crocks Australia will have lost it's moral compass
I saw this thread in passing on my Xmas morning Arrseing,
By the second post was laughing at the plagiarist's nil score.
For should a man go walting, with ambitions high and vaulting,
His "self-penned" verse exulting shall be exposed as nothing more
Than assumed poetic glory, replacing words in another's story
Full of brag and bluff and bluster, (how typical of Worcester)
A mean, ignoble, lying, walt revealed at Arrse's door.

Quoth the waltenkommando; "Nevermore."


Here's one of mine...

There once was a man who stole poetry
he was a ******* ****
he posted it on arrse and claimed it was his
the ******* lying bastard.


Book Reviewer
A good spot and rightly so. I think the original poster should have at least acknowledged the poem you gave a link to. Now ARRSE is not necessarily the place to chase down the possibility of plagiarism, but in the spirit of poetry, perhaps the original poster might like to comment ?
I wonder if the original 'walting poet' poster cares to comment...
Is this the ARRSE's first case of poet waltism? And on Christmas Day too.
I think it is. Anyway. Here's one I wrote yesterday. Could catch on!

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, Mr. 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 how'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;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
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