Poem

[rosscoc87]

I have been reading a book recently about WW1 air combat and this was in it. It was writen by a man called William Bond Who was a Pilot in 40 Squadron.
It is a parody of a Lewis Carroll poem called "The Jabberwocky" were a monster is slain by a boy in a strange and sinister world. A "Quirk" is what the pilots nicknamed the BE2c.

'Twas brilling and the slithy Quirk
Did drone and burble in the blue,
All floppy were his wing controls
(And his observer too)

'Beware the wicked Albatros',
The O.C. quirks' had told him flat;
'Beware the Hun-Hun bird and shun
The frumious Halberstadt'

But while through uffish bumps he ploughed,
The Albatros, with tail on high,
Came diving out the tulgey cloud
And let his bullets fly.

One, two; one, two and through and through,
The Lewis gun went tick-a-tack,
The Hun was floored, the Quirk had scored,
And came 'split arsing' back.

'Oh hast you slain the Albatros?
Split one, with me, my beamish boy,
Our RAF-ish scout has found them out',
The C.O. wept for joy.

Mick Mannock apparently loved this poem and kept a copy in his diary.
I also enjoyed it so i thought i'd share it with you's.

Cheers

[flash]

Nice one Ross

[The Cowman]

Thats going on the outside of one of my storage cases somehow! Thanks for sharing Ross!

Out of curiosity, what is the name of the book?

[tuladin]

Could it be Bloody April by Peter Hart (pg. 298)???

[bsmith13]

Lol! I like "Lewis Gun" substituted for Vorpal Sword. Nicely done.

[Flying Officer Kyte]

Very nice to see an old favourite of mine resurected. Thanks for that.
Rob.

[The Cowman]

Could it be Bloody April by Peter Hart (pg. 298)???

If so I am thinking that will be at the top of my "books to get" list now! Thx!

[CappyTom]

Very good parody. Thanks for sharing. I bet all the guys got a kick out of it around the bar.

Tom

[RonaldRS]

I like it!!! COOL

[Flying Officer Kyte]

Here is one of my favourites.
Rob.

Here is a poem of the First World War. With apologies to Longfellow.


“The Wreck of the Old F.E.”

It was an old FE2b,
That flew the wintry sky;
The pilot had taken a second AM*
To bear him company.

Red were his eyes as the crimson rose,
His nose like the dawn of day;
His feet as cold as a mess room stove
As they ploughed their chilly way.

The skipper he sat in the pilot’s seat,
His heart was in his mouth’
As he watched how the veering wind did blow
The clouds now West, now South.

Then up spake the observer bold,
With a gesture of his hand,
“I’m hanged if I know where the hell we are.
So hurry up and land.

“Last week the sky was full of planes,
Today no planes I see.”
But the pilot spat on his aneroid,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Higher and higher he climbed the bus,
And looked for his escort bold;
But they were down in the mess-room hut
(If you wish the truth be told).

Down came the storm and smote again
The FE in her strength;
She shuddered and stalled like a frightened steed,
Then dropped a cables length.

“Lie down, lie down, my little AM,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the toughest gale
That ever wind did blow”.

“Oh Captain! I hear a pop-pop-pop;
Oh say, what may that be?”
“It’s a blasted Hun on my blinking tail”,
And he turned around to see.
“Oh Captain! I see two crosses black;
Oh say, what may it be?”
“Grab hold of the Lewis, and shoot you fool,
And don’t stand talking to me.”

“Oh Captain! I don’t understand the gun,
Oh say, what shall I do?”
But the Captain’s words were wafted back,
And broke the prop in two.

Then down through the fleecy clouds below,
The FE drifted fast;
The observer thought of his future,
And the pilot thought of his past.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound- what can it be?
Twas Archie paying his last respects
To the wreck of the old FE.

The trenches were right below her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And the Captain swore if he DID get down,
He’d break the blighter’s neck.

She struck where the verdant, waving grass
Looked soft as a downy bed;
But a couple of cows got in her way,
So she quietly stood on her head.

Full twenty yards across the ground
The luckless pair were cast.
“I think I’ll go,” said the luckless AM
“The danger is not past.”

At daybreak in a barren field,
He still was running round;
Whilst close behind the pilot came’
Forever gaining ground.

The oil was frozen on his face,
His mouth was full of sand,
But nearer came the avenger grim
With joystick in his hand.

Such was the wreck of the old FE
In the land of rain and mud.
Lord, save us all from such an AM,
And make the weather dud.

* Air Mechanic.

[rosscoc87]

The book was "Fighter heros of WW1" (ISBN = 978-0-00-727494-9) Great read Ken, still to finish it though. That was a gd one Rob! Keep them coming folks

[tuladin]

The book was "Fighter heros of WW1" (ISBN = 978-0-00-727494-9) Great read Ken, still to finish it though. That was a gd one Rob! Keep them coming folks

Sounds interesting - I'll have to look it up.

I was wondering because that same poem is in hart's Bloody April, along with some of the information you provided, but Hart mistakenly attributes Jabberwocky to Edward Lear!

[MayorJim]

Nice finds Ross and Rob...Thanks!

[tonyc206]

Good poems guys. Thanks for sharing

[Flying Officer Kyte]

Here is one very close to my heart.
Rob.

The Ballard of the Bristol Fighter.

There are half a dozen buses
On which I’ve had a whack,
From the RE8 to the two- ton weight
Of the lumbering old Nine Ack.

On the rotary- engine Avro
I’ve attempted several tricks:
And I’ll beat the band on the Clutching Hand,
Better known as the DH6.

And many a first class joyride
I’ve had on them last and first,
And many a strut I’ve had go phut
And many a wheel tyre burst.

But few of them know the secret,
Of making my heart rejoice,
Like a well rigged Bristol Fighter
With a two-six-five Rolls-Royce.

She stands at her place on the tarmac,
Like a tiger crouched for the spring,
From the arching spine of her fuselage line
To the ample spread of her wing.


With her wires like sinews tautened,
And her tail- skid’s jaunty twist,
Whilst her grey -cowled snout juts grimly out
Like a boxer’s tight clenched fist

Is there a sweeter music,
Or a more contented sound,
Than the purring clop of her broad, curved prop,
As it gently ticks around?

Then open her up, crescendo
In a deep- toned, swelling roar,
Till she quivers and rocks as she strains at the chocks,
And clamours amain to soar.

Whisk them away my ladies,
Taxi her into the wind,
Then off we skim on a spinning rim
With the tail well up behind.

Hold her down to a hundred,
Then up in a climbing turn
Till we catch our breaths in the air, up high.
I wouldn’t exchange my seat not I,
For a thousand pounds to burn.