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Jimmy Clancy

Contributed by dedalus on Friday, 4th February 2005 @ 02:49:22 PM in AEST
Topic: war

In Spain
they laughed at me
when I arrived
after a dreadful drive
in my V-8 Lancia, across
those bloody mountains
with the steering,
annoyingly, pulling
to the left.

Soda, the dog,
(I had left his sister
Whiskey behind),
barked joyously,and,
from that moment,
captured the hearts
of our ill-shaven army.

Hola! I said
Hola, they said, plus
a rapid waterfall
of language; their Spanish
was pretty good, why
not? It was their country.
My Spanish was non-existent,
I was a grinning stumbling fool.

It was their country.

I had a jumble of ideas, beliefs,
somewhat silly now, no longer
fiercely fine and pure,
standing on this scrubby ground
far from the bars and sexual promise
of wine-sodden Paris.

Yo soy pilota,
I said, arms like wings,
shoot down Fascisti, OK?
They looked at me,
looked at the dog,
nervous and polite,
awaiting translation.

Three steps forward,
Two steps back;
Forward, comrades,
Ready for attack.

Useless war, have
to tell you; these bloody
Germans, Italians, don't
want to fight: we are
desperate for victories
in the air; on the ground,
goddam, we are losing

Lost it.

Wee pudgy Franco
rolled over us,
pushed our people
across the mountains
into nervy, jittery France.
But the next one is coming,
you can feel it.

Britain, 1939:
What can I do for you, Paddy?
Sign me up
in your feckin airforce.
I say, keen are we?
Hullo, hullo, seems
You're a PAF, old boy.

Premature Anti-Fascist.

Three steps forward,
Two steps back;
Forward, comrades,
Ready for attack.

In the air
we are all the same,
Poles, Irish, French.
None of us give a damn
for the King of England
but we pounce like demons
in a murderous frenzy
on the ME 109s.

Operations,
booze and operations,
day after day, oops,
there goes Johnny,
there goes Phil;
Poor buggers: I say, I say,
Who's going to pay for the bloody taxi?

Battle of Britain,
Malta, North Africa,
running cover for the bombers.
everybody so young,
no friends left over;
Twenty-five kills, medals
out me arse: who cares?

Three steps forward,
Two steps back;
Forward, comrades,
Ready for attack.

May 45,
the war is over.
Time to go home.
I have no home.
Time to get a job.
I have no job.
The only thing I can do
is shoot airplanes out of the sky.

Copyright © dedalus ... [ 2005-02-04 14:49:22]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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