For those who dont know or understand.

Discussion in 'The Intelligence Cell' started by Brimstone, Nov 9, 2008.

Welcome to the Army Rumour Service, ARRSE

The UK's largest and busiest UNofficial military website.

The heart of the site is the forum area, including:

  1. Why Do We Still March?

    Why do you still march old man
    With medals on your chest?
    Why do you still grieve old man
    For those friends you laid to rest?
    Why do your eyes gleam old man
    When you hear those bugles blow
    Tell me why you cry old man
    For those days long ago.

    I'll tell you why I march, young man
    With medals on my chest
    I'll tell you why I grieve young man
    For those friends I laid to rest
    Through misty folds of gossamer silk
    Come visions of distant times
    When boys of very tender age
    Marched forth to distant climes

    So young they were, with blossom cheeks
    Their eyes shone bright and clear
    Scant knowledge of this sinful world
    Thought nought of hate or fear
    Their laughter rang through strange bare rooms
    Hardships, they were soon to know
    All they knew, was beyond their shores
    Was a deadly vicious foe

    They left behind their boring life
    They had nothing much to give
    so they laid their lives on the line
    so you, young man, would live

    With bayonet, gun and blossom cheeks
    The innocence of their youth
    They stood alone, with fearsome pride
    And perceived the awful truth
    The truth they learnt, they had to die
    (it's not easy when you're young)
    the gods of war had chosen them
    and stilled their youthful tongues

    The guns they crashed, the Stukas dived
    Shell tore their flesh asunder
    I smelt their blood, watched them die
    The war lords claimed their plunder
    And as these warrior gods passed by
    They smiled at their obscene death
    Gone were their apple-blossom cheeks
    Scorched by napalm burning breath!

    We buried them in a blanket shroud
    Their young flesh scorched and blacken
    A communal grave newly gouged
    In the blood-stained earth
    And you ask me why I march! Young man
    I march to remind you all
    But for those apple-blossom youths
    You would never have known freedom, at all.

    Bill Ridley
  2. The point of your post being?
    If it's a top trumps type of post, I see your prose and raise you this,

    Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there; I do not sleep.

    I am a thousand winds that blow,
    I am the diamond glints on snow,
    I am the sun on ripened grain,
    I am the gentle autumn rain.

    When you awaken in the morning's hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circling flight.

    I am the stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry,
    I am not there; I did not die.

    Gets me every time.

    Edited to add

    I also remember some wise words from a cantankerous old blerk on here,

    Over there,
    there was a cow,
    it must have moved,
    it's not there now.

    Forgive me for having shoite sense of humour, but you would be surprised how often that crops up in everyday conversation.
  3. My personal favourite:

    Bent double, like old beggers under sacks
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags we cursed through sludge
    'Til on the haunting flares we'd turned our backs
    And to our distent rest began to trudge

    Men marched asleep
    Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood-shod
    Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the sound
    Of the shells dropping softly behind

    "Gas! Gas! Gas! Quick boys!"
    An extasy of fumbling
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time
    But someone still was calling out and stumbling
    And floundering like a man in fire or lime.

    Dim, through misty panes and thick green light
    As under a green sea I saw him drowning
    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight
    He lungs at me - guttering, choking, drowning.

    If in some fever dream you to could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in
    And see the white eyes writhing in his face
    His hanging face, like a devil sick of sin
    And hear the blood come gargling from his froth-corrupted lungs
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
    Of vile sore on innocent tongues

    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children, ardent for some desperate glory
    The Old Lie: Dulce Et Decorm Est
    Pro Patrie Morte.

    (Forgive the Mong spelling)
  4. On younder hill
    there was a bucket,
    It's not there now
    cos someone took it

    :D I thank you

  5. What's that? Sappers bringing the tone down to a level somwhere around that of provincial binmen? Jolly good - carry on!
  6. William McGonagall: "In a field, there stood a coo. It's no' there noo, it must ha' shifted."

    Says it all, really.