Click here to subscribe to our website newsletters
VoicesNet Media, LLC
AIN'T IT GRAND, a poem by Stephen John Morrow, UK
Tributes, Memorials Poems & War Poetry
Stephen John Morrow, UK
AIN'T IT GRAND
‘AINT IT GRANDSeptember 15/1915So it’s off to war! By they were glad Singing and whistling a tune every ladWith a swing of their arms and a smile on their lipsAnd a shine in their eyesFor the gals in white slipsSo it’s down to the stationTo board for the frontWith a hiss and a whistleA pull and a shuntJust one last lookWith a tear in their eyeWe will be home for ChristmasSo no need to cryThe Germans can’t shoot straightTheir bullets are rubberSo hold your tears girlThere is no need to blubberONE MONTH LATER OCT 15-1915So we will dig our own trenchesAnd sleep in the mudThe weather’s quite coldAnd the food’s not that goodSarge blows a whistleAnd over we goOne at a time or all in a rowThe noise is quite deafeningThe bullets whiz byA strange sort of noise hearing men dieSome they go quickly with not even a whimperSome take all night caught in the moons glimmerTrapped in the wire, trod in the mudGuts lay beside them leaking life’s blood.Screams and cry’s they cut through the cold night airTo end your life this way just don’t seem fairSo I lay in my trench hands over my earsThe rain on my face hiding my tearsWhile somebody’s father somebody’s sonSomebody’s sweetheartWho’s life’s just begunPleads for his mother to stop his painAnd hold him in her armsJust once againBut she will never hearHer boys last requestShe will never again see his boyish zestShe will never hold him in her arms againOr ruffle his hair or soothe his pain‘Whistle Whistle‘Well there’s no time to day dreamAnd no time to dither‘Cause the Sergeant is callingAnd so through the mud we must slitherOver the top keep your head downTry not to trod on those laying downPast little Jimmy stuck on the fenceThis bloody war don’t make any senseI feel a slight tingle running down my spineMy legs are numb they don’t feel like mine Its all going dark nowI am feeling quite queerFeel really tired but mam will soon be hereTo tuck me in and ruffle my hairAnd tell me a story about ‘Rabbit Brier’Lights fading fast nowTime to sleepGood night sweet JesusMy soul pray you keep
Use the following form to support the author by sending this poem to your friends, family and co-workers.
Each time that you forward this poem to another friend of yours, the poet will earn marketing credits to get their poem pages displayed even more on the Internet.
Have this poem read to you by one of our Poets!
HELP THIS AUTHOR OUT BY COPYING THE FOLLOWING HTML CODE INTO ANY WEBPAGE