THEY KEEP ASKING ''WHATS IT LIKE?'' (WW1 story-verse) (addishans)
what was the war like, did you kill any Germans?I shrugded, '' wait till you go, you'l find out what
how can I tell 'em, how I plunge me byanet in
to a mans gut, after pusshing the porr bardeads
bayanet away from my guts, the sound of my
baynet, deep in to the flesh of his belly, the sound of air
excaping, the Jerry's punctured belly , grabing my baynet, griping
it, oh so tight trying to pull my baynet out of his stomoke, how can i tell
of how his fingers, were cut through, droping off onE by one
how he said keep on saying '' Komarad, pleae dont''
how can I tell that to any one asking me whats it like
him crying for his maiter, his mum, he we'r about my age, NINETEEN
now he'd never be TWENTY!, I saw to that!
how I put my boot on his balls, so I could pull out my blood wet byanet
fireing my rifle in to his belly, so has to get my bloody bayanet out!
his guts, bowls, liver, kidnys, come out on my byanet, steaming!
how me mate and me jumpt into Friztz trench, me lands feet first on Jerry
shot him dead blew the top of his head then later found me mate, that were strange
he landed on an Erikes byanet, me mates, bayanet, were in the germans, guts, now
both still breithing, their last breiths, stering in to each other eyes
tell the them of bodys, dead, the dieing, the buchering of them and us
tell them of being in the german trenches, cut off from our lines, for seven days
seven nights, of crwling back , like snakes slowly back to our trenches, crwling over our dead and dieing mates, tell of the breiths pushd ut by us, feling that last breiths, on our faces, on our lips, cheks, some still a live, feil their blood, taist their blood, how can I tell of that!? very lights, over head, huging our dead, and dieing, holding on for dear life, of the fear, fook knos how we made it back, so few of us!
how just how can I tell them asking whats it like?
how can I tell them, those asking me whats it's like! oh bollox
the soile and chalk, turnde in to pinkish-brownish mud, by the blood shed
the sceremes, oh the fooking screimes of the dieing
that I pissde my self, shat my self, in fear, fear of what I was doing to men like me
fear of what could hapen to me, fear of the man I'd became
how can I tell of that to those who keep on asking, whats it like to kill?
wh'o would be trying to do me just what I was doing to them!
them, me, had to die, that day, I was some how going to suvive, the day!
how can I tell them that, asking me what's it like!
maybe some day, I will ask them: ''what was it like for you, did kill any one?''
OH BOLLOX TO 'EM!
ken d williams
The Dyslexic Wordsmith
Poetry by ken d williams
Read 590 times
Written on 2017-06-26 at 20:28
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Kathy Lockhart |
