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Poetry

 

GEORGE’S WAR, 1940 - 1943.

(53,000 British troops killed, wounded in North Africa Campaign)

“No, don’t come round to me
with your blood red poppies, duck,
I saw the real stuff, and guts,
spilled out in North Africa, Italy …
we were the tommies in the tanks
and on the trucks, me and my friends,
sitting ducks, thanks to the ‘brass’.
They spent our lives like matches,
and what a farce it all turned
out to be with us shelling out
for Germany to get back on its feet
when we got back, well some of us,
makes me spit.

Sure, we knew a war had to be won,

but where were they,
all said and done, the bloody brass,
on the desert run, not in the sand
and dirt and camel dung
with shirts all sweaty out of fear
and heat of the sun and flies
on body parts, blood everywhere.”

At this George spat,
roughly brushed off a tear.

“No offence meant, my duck,
but I remember all my mates,
you see – I don’t need a fuckin’
poppy for that.”

 

 

 

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