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Posts Tagged ‘British’

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Some Britons have lost all their senses

In saying that lads may have menses.
For the sake of the sane
And those with a brain,
Keep fools far away with good fences.

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https://www.breitbart.com/europe/2018/12/16/schools-eight-year-olds-boys-periods/?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&fbclid=IwAR0ZChSkw3PmcvdLGnJDWwm46bjoCHnk_LwgUMQ6bWWhgyRxSXBmf6YUAXs

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photo by Jo Spargo at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n6zjt9Y/Silverton+2

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

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Somme

Another war and time, another place
About the foe he had begun to face,
Grant said, “I’ll fight it out upon this line
If it all summer takes till it is mine.”

And following the stubbornness of mules,
The Great War foes fought on like fools
Upon a line along the River Somme
Without the flair of war, without aplomb.
As if a duel with twenty paces stepped,
They stayed while many new-made widows wept
For five long months while each side’s pain
Grew even larger without any gain.
They slogged it out upon that bloody sod
Without a thought to man or even God,
With Germany and all its Axis band
Fixed on the solitary goal of land.
A solemn summer turned to somber fall
And Somme became a soggy grave, a gall
A million drank. And sobbing? – even more,
As Somme showed the futility of war.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty

Your subjects hope, dread Sire –
The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong!
O, may your scepter num’rous nations sway,
And all with love and readiness obey!
But how shall we the British King reward?
Rule thou in peace, our father, and our lord!
Midst the remembrance of thy favors past,
The meanest peasants most admire the last.
May George, beloved by all the nations round,
Live with heav’n’s choicest constant blessings crown’d!
Great God, direct, and guard him from on high,
And from his head let ev’ry evil fly!
And may each clime with equal gladness see
A monarch’s smile can set his subjects free!

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By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, an’ I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, an’ the temple-bells they say:
“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!”
…Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

“Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,
An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-let – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her fust a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ‘eathen idol’s foot:
Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud –
What they called the Great Gawd Budd –
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ‘er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,
She’d git ‘er little banjo an’ she’d sing “Kulla-lo-lo!”
With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an’ her cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence ‘ung that ‘eavy you was ‘arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ‘ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
“If you’ve ‘eard the East a-callin’, why, you won’t ‘eed naught else.”
No! you won’t ‘eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple bells;
On the road to Mandalay
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and –
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments, an’ a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be –
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea –
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
Oh, the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

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