Barry of the Depot

Discussion in 'Poetry Corner' started by kollontai, Dec 25, 2011.

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  1. 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
  2. Quite good.
  3. Why do people write this shite?
  4. Poetry is the refuge of the Cricket hating sodomite

    Unless it starts their once was a young lady from ........
  5. Bowmore_Assassin

    Bowmore_Assassin LE Moderator 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 ?
  6. 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
  7. You lie! to study it at school. That's it. Yes.
    • Like Like x 1
  8. Auld-Yin

    Auld-Yin LE Reviewer Book Reviewer Reviews Editor

    Of course you did (n't) :)

    BTW, you are f*cked now :) :) :)
  9. Is this the ARRSE's first case of poet waltism? And on Christmas Day too.
  10. Les' direct (and only) ancestor, but we prefer not to discuss it. Discretion, you see.
  11. Poetry Walt!!!
  12. Apart form his sister Dame Edna, of course.
  13. 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