Great Military Poetry

#61
Song Of The Dying Gunner.
Oh Mother My mouth is full of stars
As cartridges in the tray
My blood is a twin branched scarlet tree
And it runs all away.

Oh cooks to the galley is sounded off
And the lads are down in the mess
But I lie down by the forrard gun
With a splinter in My breast.

Dont send Me a parcel at Christmas time
Of socks and nutty and wine
And dont depend on a long weekend
By the Great Western Railway line.

Farewell Aggie Weston and the barracks at Guz
Hang My tiddley suit on the door
Im sewn up neat in a canvas sheet
And I shan't be home no more.
 

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