I survived me wounds,
Spent me time in Blighty,
Sent back to France.
I’d lost me hope of remaining.
Sent back to France—part of a new draft!
As raw as they come! Shit!
One little bastard attached ’em self ter me! Like a lice!
Four an halfpence—I’d of run a candle over ’em—get rid of the sprog!
But no matter what I said,
No matter how many times I told ’im to fook off!
He’d just grin back at me!
Keep asking what it were like.
Had I met any Germans? How many I’d killed.
Shot many—bayoneted any—’e were driving me fooking mad!
I told ’em—the , front were cushy enough—when ’e ask me about the front!
I—I made sure I never get up close—to use me bayonet!
On and on—the sprog went on—had I ever met any Bosh? What are they like?
How I wanted to hit the little bastard—with me rifle butt!
Even when we went up the line—to the trenches—on and on ’e went.
Fooking twat—perishing little sprog!
We got into our part of the line—’e was still asking stuff.
How far away are the Fritz?
Oh, ’bout ’undred yards—there abouts, I tell ’im!
So we can see them like?
Amazing—that! Just don’t stick your fooking head up! I told the little git.
I’ll be fine.
Before I know it the stupid fooking sprog stuck his nut up!
BANG! His brain came out of the back of his ’ead,
All over me face and into the platoons stew!
The little shit! On ’is face ’e was showing a fooking grin!
© 2016 Ken D. Williams
The Dyslexic Wordsmith.