National Poetry Week 2010

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by vvaannmmaann, Oct 4, 2010.

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  1. This outstanding cultural event starts on the 7th October.
    Therefore to see how refined and cultural we are,please continue.

    There once was a squaddie called Hunt,
    ..............
     
  2. Ravers

    Ravers LE Reviewer Book Reviewer

    I know this really moving one about this crabby old cunt of an ex squaddy who lives in some shithole with no furniture and he gets broken into at Christmas time. It'll bring a tear to your eye, I'll try and find it and post it.
     
  3. If you value your life,then please don't.Not until the week prior to Xmas anyways!
     
  4. Ravers

    Ravers LE Reviewer Book Reviewer

    Here ya go:

    TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,
    HE LIVED ALL ALONE,
    IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE MADE OF
    PLASTER AND STONE.

    I HAD COME THROUGH THE WINDOW
    TO ROB THE CUNT BLIND,
    AND TO STEAL SOME JEWELLERY,
    OR VALUABLES OF ANY KIND.

    I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,
    A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,
    NO TELLY, NO RADIO,
    NOT EVEN A PS3.

    NO HEIRLOOMS BY MANTLE,
    JUST BOOTS THAT FUCKING STANK,
    ON THE WALL HUNG CHAD PHOTS
    AND A POSTER OF SOME PAGE 3 SKANK.

    WITH A JUBILEE MEDAL,
    AND A CAP BADGE OF SOME KIND,
    A SOBERING THOUGHT,
    CAME THROUGH MY MIND.

    FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,
    IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,
    I'D FOUND THE HOME OF LOGGIE,
    ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.

    THE GROTTY CUNT LAY SLEEPING,
    SILENT, ALONE,
    CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR
    IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.

    A BOTTLE OF VODKA,
    LAY SMASHED ON THE FLOOR,
    AND I NOTICED A PICTURE,
    OF THE LAD WITH A THAI WHORE.

    WHAT A GROTTY MINGER,
    HE WAS REALLY WAS JACK,
    HE WAS CRASHED OUT ON A PONCHO,
    THE FLOOR FOR A RACK.

    I REALIZED THE HOUSES.
    THAT I'D BURGLED THAT NIGHT,
    WHERE ALL PRETTY CRAPPY,
    BUT THIS REALLY WAS SHITE.

    SOON ROUND THE WORLD,
    THE CHILDREN WOULD SING,
    AND THIS CUNT WOULD WAKE UP,
    TO FIND I'D ROBBED ALL HIS THINGS.

    Oh fuck it that'll do, I can't be arsed to do any more but you get the gist of it.
     
  5. I prefer poems containing the words 'jolly' 'giant' 'ho ho' and 'binfantry.'

    Where do you think I could find one of those?

    Mmmmm...
     
  6. Oh Ravers,I hope you've kept your tin lid.
     
  7. Ravers

    Ravers LE Reviewer Book Reviewer

  8. Hmm, Ravers. I'm not sure about this at all - the first line is derivative and you veer, alarmingly, in my view away from the iambic at times. Mind you, your phrase "the grotty cunt lay sleeping" reminded me of T S Eliot's The Hollow Men, or indeed parts of The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.

    The whole piece has a hint of the, sadly recherche, Modernist movement about it. And somehow, one was expecting a more post-Modernist approach.

    Go away and rewrite it.
     
  9. Errm! wot he said.....................I think!?
     
  10. Here you are:

    THE FIGHTING VEHICLES OF THE BRITISH ARMY

    The Challenger tank makes the very earth shake,
    And causes our enemies to drop down and quake.
    They are fierce and armoured and above all reliant,
    Ho, ho, ho - green giant.

    The blades rotate and cut through the air,
    Reducing fleeing enemies to heaps of burnt hair,
    The Apache soars upwards, proud and defiant
    Ho, ho, ho - green giant.

    The Warriors smash defences like hot knives through butters,
    And deter all our foes, apart from the nutters.
    The great armoured infantry help our country stay bouyant,
    Ho, ho, ho - green giant.

    The 432s may be old and long past their prime,
    And the engines keep the VMs working, cleaning out the grime,
    But they're still battle-winners when the gears are pliant.
    Ho, ho, ho - green giant.

    But the best of all is a one-seater for a soul,
    A motorbike of flesh and blood that over the hills does roll,
    For the soldier himself is by far the most gallant,
    Ho, ho, ho - green giant.



    Winchester station was cold and was quiet,
    Just me and the Smudger and young Billy Myatt,
    Faces all tense and eyes wide-eyed,
    As we made our way out to the Bedford outside.

    I remember the statue of old Sir John Moore,
    And the Section Commander: 'Get outside!' (of the door).
    I think of the smell of the kiwi and oil,
    And feeling my lightweights at one with the soil.

    The marching we did stood us out from the crowd,
    140 to the minute makes families so proud,
    Many weeks training and then 'Oh my Lordy',
    Battalion in life in all it's mad glory.

    The friends that we made then still float on the tides,
    Even the old lads who rubbed stingy-stuff in our eyes.
    Battalion life was good but made richer,
    By the addition of a gyros and a pils 4-pint pitcher.

    Now we are older but memories still linger,
    Of Gornji and Jajce and old Tito's Finger.
    If it wasn't for the Regiment making me INFANTRY
    The council would have had me, employed doing bin-fantry.

    (C) Durchy. He was truly a leg-end.
     
  11. Thanks Snail Person. X

    I was too damn lazy to search for him.

    Durchy you really are a leg end. Come back and regale us. (Honestly, 'bin-fantry', I fuckin love it!)
     
  12. Well done GM you found it first.

    Poor Durchy, we really ripped the lad a new arsehole. He tried so hard, but his offerings were right off the wrist, fuck..I actually finished up feeling sorry for him. I think he went away and committed suicide somewhere in the outer Hebrides.
     
  13. You obviously weren't there when he was outed. I will try to find the thread on which it was done. Suffice to say, it was ARRSE's première wind-up merchant...
     
  14. Then again there is that classic...how does it go? Oh yes "Boom boom boom boom boom boom..." The Guns by Pte FO Baldrick.