'twas the night before Christmas...

Discussion in 'The Gash Barge' started by pinkprincess, Dec 19, 2010.

Welcome to the Navy Net aka Rum Ration

The UK's largest and busiest UNofficial RN website.

The heart of the site is the forum area, including:

  1. 'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,
    HE LIVED ALL ALONE,
    IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE,
    MADE OF PLASTER AND STONE.

    I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY,
    WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE,
    AND TO SEE JUST WHO
    IN THIS HOME, DID LIVE.

    I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,
    A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,
    NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS,
    NOT EVEN A TREE.
    NO STOCKING BY MANTLE,
    JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND,
    ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES,
    OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.
    WITH MEDALS AND BADGES,
    AWARDS OF ALL KINDS.


    A SOBER THOUGHT,
    WENT THROUGH MY MIND.
    FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,
    IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,
    I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER,
    ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.

    THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING,
    SILENT, ALONE,
    CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR,
    IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.
    THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE,
    THE ROOM IN DISORDER,
    NOT HOW I PICTURED,
    A TRUE BRITISH SOLDIER.
    WAS THIS THE HERO,
    OF WHOM I'D JUST READ?
    CURLED UP IN A PONCHO,
    THE FLOOR FOR A BED?

    I REALISED THE FAMILIES,
    THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT,
    OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS,
    WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.

    SOON ROUND THE WORLD,
    THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY,
    AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE,
    A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.
    THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM,
    EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR,
    BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS
    LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.

    I COULD NOT BUT HELP WONDER,
    HOW MANY LAY ALONE
    ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE,
    IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.
    THE VERY THOUGHT BROUGHT
    A TEAR TO MY EYE,
    I DROPPED TO MY KNEES,
    AND STARTED TO CRY.


    THE SOLDIER AWAKENED,
    AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE,
    "SANTA DON'T CRY,
    THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;
    I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,
    I DON'T ASK FOR MORE,
    MY LIFE IS MY GOD,
    MY COUNTRY, MY CORPS...."
    THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,
    AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP,
    I COULDN'T CONTROL IT,

    I CONTINUED TO WEEP.

    I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS,
    SO SILENT AND STILL,
    AND WE BOTH SHIVERED,
    FROM THE NIGHTS COLD CHILL.
    I DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE,
    ON THIS COLD, DARK, NIGHT,
    THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOUR,
    SO WILLING TO FIGHT.
    THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,
    AND WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE,
    WHISPERED, "CARRY ON SANTA,
    IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE."
    ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH,
    AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.
    "MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND,
    AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT."
     
  2. "the Box"

    Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
    Around about the wondrous days of yore,
    They came across a kind of box
    Bound up with chains and locked with locks
    And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."
    A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout
    And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
    Don't fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
    And please don't ever play about with war.
    The children understood. Children happen to be good
    And they were just as good around the time of yore.
    They didn't try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box.
    They never tried to play about with war.
    Mommies didn't either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither
    'Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
    In those wondrous days of yore.
    Well, very much the same as now,
    And not the ones to blame somehow
    For opening up that deadly box of war.
    But someone did. Someone battered in the lid
    And spilled the insides out across the floor.
    A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags
    And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war.
    It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
    Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair
    Was that it didn't really seem to care
    Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
    It bumped the children mainly. And I'll tell you this quite plainly,
    It bumps them every day and more, and more,
    And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying
    Thousands of them sick and crying.
    'Cause when it bumps, it's really very sore.
    Now there's a way to stop the ball. It isn't difficult at all.
    All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure
    That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks.
    But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
    Well, that's the way it all appears, 'cause it's been bouncing round
    for years and years
    In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore
    And the time they came across the box,
    Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
    And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."

    Lascelles Abercrombie


    |
     
  3. Thought I'd bang in this one by Lascelles Abercrombie, a relative of Rumrat he was a Portsmouth Division Gunnery Instructor, who was teetotal and a regular reciter of poems at Aggie Westons in Devonport and also a regular at the Fleet Club Pompey and the Golden Fleece Southsea.
    Given time I'm sure rumrat will recite one of his own compositions and in the meantime I will compose one on Dieting in the Festive season :roll:
     
  4. I'm confused. Is he home or deployed?

    :pukeright: :pukeright: :pukeright: :pukeright: :pukeright:
     
  5. Just got this from sunny Espana this morning (0832.45 to be exact !!) certainly doing the rounds !!
     
  6. Father Christmas is a Prick and the story makes me sick,
    Of a fat twat with a suit that's coloured red,
    And did they really loose the plot when they say a chimney pot,
    Is the way the fucker comes whilst your in bed.
    Why should fatty snatch the glory, in this slushy made up story,
    When its moms and dads that work to get the toys,
    He may spin a north pole dit, but it's still a crock of shit,
    And as such should not be told to girls and boys.
    So when your in the shopping mall, with no money for fuck all,
    And the big red bastards sitting on his throne,
    Just go up and ask the wanker if he thinks that he's a banker,
    And if so to give an instant credit free loan.
    And I bet he'll cough and sputter and the elves begin to mutter,
    For you to fuck off sober up or just go home.
    Its my belief that now we should deport the fat red cow,
    But the home office have said my plan's already dead,
    As they'd have a hard time trying ( unless some bastards lying),
    To deport him so i asked why not just shoot him dead.
    The problem is or so it seems that not even in our dreams,
    Can we stop the twat just flying past our border,
    I said cant we use a rocket , to protect our border, (and to lock it)
    They said yes when they arrive... there still on order.
    So although it drives me mad, as a working hard up dad,
    To see the fat twat grabbing all the praise,
    His time will come and soon and I'll be jumping ore the moon,
    Cus Santa will be going out in a big "Blaze".
     
  7. Quality..... sheer Quality,,, :roll:
     
  8. It appeared in my email and found its way here.

    Loving the lyrical wisdom Rumrat - I made pressies for everyone this year, nothing flashy or expensive, just soap, bath bombs, body butter, candles, cake and choccies.
     
  9. janner

    janner War Hero Book Reviewer

    A Christmas Tale



    It was Christmas Day in the workhouse

    The merriest day of the year

    The paupers and the prisoners

    Were all assembled there

    In came the Christmas pudding

    When a voice that shattered glass

    Said, "We don't want your Christmas pudding

    So stick it

    there with the rest of the unwanted presents"



    The workhouse master then arose

    And prepared to carve the duck

    He said "Who wants the parson's nose

    And the prisoners shouted

    "you have it yourself sir"



    The vicar brought his bible

    And read out little bits

    Said one old crone at the back of the hall

    "This man gets on

    very well with everybody"



    The workhouse mistress then began

    To hand out Christmas parcels

    The paupers tore the wrappers off

    And began to wipe their

    eyes, which were full of tears



    The master rose to make a speech

    But just before he started

    The mistress, who was fifteen stone

    Gave three loud cheers and

    nearly choked herself



    And all the paupers then began

    To pull their Christmas crackers

    One pauper held his too low down

    And blew off both his

    paper hat and the man's next to him



    A steaming bowl of white bread sauce

    Was handed round to some

    An aged gourmet called aloud

    "This bread sauce tastes like

    it was made by a continental chef"



    Mince pie with custard sauce was next

    And each received a bit

    One pauper said "The mince pie's nice

    But the custard tastes like

    the bread sauce we had in the last verse !"



    The mistress dishing out the food

    Dropped custard down her front

    She cried "Aren't I a silly girl"

    And they answered "You're a

    perfect picture as always ma'am !"



    "This pudding ", said the master

    "It's solid, hard and thick

    how am I going to cut it ?"

    And a man cried "Use your

    penknife sir, the one with the pearl handle"



    The mistress asked the vicar

    To entertain his flock

    He said "What would you like to see ?"

    And they cried "Let's see your

    conjuring tricks, they're always worth watching"



    "Your reverence may I be excused ?"

    Said one benign old chap

    "I don't like conjuring tricks

    I'd sooner have a

    carol or two around the fire"



    So then they all began to sing

    Which shook the workhouse walls

    "Merry Christmas!" cried the master

    And the inmates shouted


    "Best of luck to you as well sir !"
     

Share This Page