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After the Beginning
And, in the Darkiness over The Great Wets where birdfarms plowed the waves, Ruled a wilful Goat God called Grong, who called out his evil son, Prang, and his almost as evil son, Bolter. For his pleasure, he summoned up the rolling seas and pitching decks of birdfarms, causing their blunt ends to describe figure eights and righteous aviators to dispaireth and delvelop a pox called chickenshit-itis and having a bad night, and the piercing eye of their saviours, called Paddles, to shed salt tears. And night noises disturbed powerful engines. And darkiness sucked lift from swept wings. And, yea, Prang and Bolter reigned. Yet, Paddles re-girded his loins, and he calmed the poxes and caused sucking it up and the flying of the ball, And Grong smiled his crooked smile and was sore pleased. And he reigned in his evil sons. And there were traps until all the righteous had returned to where the food was. And manly beverages were swilled and sliders consumed. And aviators maintained that, though they may have verily boltered some, it was not because they were not good. But they knew that every night would be at Grong's pleasure, and that it would be known as the breaks of Naval Air.
Gone West
They are only gone away If you neglect to make them stay Close in your mind, and not forget The things they did, and still and yet Remembering only hides in part The smoking hole left in the heart Unspoken in the world of men Never shown except now and then Like every year when that date comes by Doomed to repeat that same old lie.
Reflections on a February, 11 degrees F, wind 350/20g40:
TRADITIONAL: The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor robin do then, Poor thing? He'll sit in a barn, And keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing, Poor thing. RANCHO DELMUNDO VERSION: The north wind doth suck, snow down over his truck, and wot shall YP do then, Pore thing? Drink Scotch lest he freeze up his joints and his knees, and brass monkey parts and Gold Wings, Pore things....
The Strafer
Diving down through monsoon rain Gunsight centered on the train Cannons firing, red tracers find The locomotive and the cars behind Clouds of smoke, clouds of steam Hateful, hellish midnight dream Floating fireballs searching back Seek to stop the swift attack Pulling up and zooming clear Jinking because the flak is near But rolling over and coming round To finish killing what he’s found Rending metal, burning cars Bursts of bullets like flying stars Flare and flash like little suns Against a train that no longer runs Then the firing comes to an end No more ordnance to expend Cursing now because it’s done With more to do before he’s won He beckons others who have the taste To pick iron bones, and not to waste The leavings of a strafer’s skill Airborne vultures to the kill Beneath the flares on another night He knows he’ll find another fight Certain to win, perhaps to lose His to do, fate’s to choose
L’audace, 1917
Arcing around a warring sky
I knew this day
I could not die
Madly maneuvering, the enemy
finally forced
in front of me
Flying firing from the sun
until flaming, falling
he was done
Knowing better he than me
knowing my moment of
immortality
Then polished brass and boots and band
make the salute. In front
I stand
And then the forest of the night
circling around my
medal bright
Are lovely creatures, wine, and song
and all are mine
for just as long
As another day, another sky
and another flier
in flames must die
Puresome
Duckerel
My wingman was a duck named Jack A cigar smoking drake who had my back During a snake eye run on a railroad track Was struck by SAM's during the attack The last transmission I heard was QUACK Gooks had Peking Duck for a snack. If not doggerel, certainly duckerel.....
A Toast to the Twa
Recited by YP as Best Man after the Piper procession.
And, yes, the Groom was in clan kilts
Steve and Maren Millikin, 3 July 1999
Stephen the Millikin stood forty feet tall The flang of his caber was far in its fall His homeboys were Wallace and Robert the Bruce and he covered his oatmeal with Glenfiddich Scotch Juice The whack of his Claymore caused strong men to weep and give up romancing Clan Millikin sheep His kilties themselves weighed full fifty stone But heavier his heart still for he was alone Until keened his bagpipes its song crossed the Glen and summoned a lassie whose name was Maren Her wit was sae clever and beauty sae fair that the stones in his soul Slipped silently from there Soon loved they each other and each other’s wishes They dined upon Haggis and raw Japanese fishes Their joyeous union we toast today I’ve many more verses but noo tha’ nae…… So says Puresome
Doggerel of the unfair Francophobe
If the War be wet and foggy do not depend on your friend the Froggy If the War be hot as hell expect the Frog to run pell-mell And if the War be monstrous cold the Frog attack shall scarce be bold And finally if the War be fair do not expect the Frog to care And find him in a small cafe with his bottles of Beaujolais Cherchez Le Puresome
Really Rough Seas
Wunct I was a Squid Sail stormy seas, I did My lunches I could not save when lurching thru monstrous wave whose foamy tops would curl I'd spew and barf and hurl Oh, hear me when I cry to Thee For him wot's seasick on the sea! Not so Barnacle YP
RFC Redux
Once they flew their Camels Against a cunning, Hunning foe, And turned them into flamers And smiled and watched them go. Now they all are poofters In the local drag queen show! FLYING CORPS IS SHOT TO HELL!
Far From Penzance
Me ugly mug is got its scar, Yankee Air Pi-Rate, I are, I are I lives me life for pillage and rape and fermented juices of cane and grape I drinks me grog from a Mason fruit jar And lear and sneer and growls me “Arrrrrrr!” I've grappled the mail buoy from off larboard bow Scanned for the sea bat due right soon now Heard horrible screaming of the frabberized Ho when offered fi' dollah in Old 'Longapo Bombed Gomer's rice barges in the middle of night when I lighted them up with para flare light But now I'm a Landsman and off growing goats No paddles up shit creek, not even no boats Nor yet any water, nor even a stream But I reckon I reckon a pirate can dream.... YP
Ballade von Der Stern
(Melody and apologies to Oscar Brand)
Oh, give me a M-e One-O-Nine! The Freidrich is really quite fine, It shoots Spits and Hurries, So I’ve got no worries, So, give me a B-f One-O-Nine! Chorus: Don’t send me back to Deuchland! I’m having too much fun! Oh, no, I don’t want to go, I’m having just way too much fun! O, hosing the odd Kittyhawk, Surely does make the Brits squawk, Though they may be wary, I’ll bust their Lufberry, And they can do nothing but gawk! Chorus: In Afrika, I’m known as Der Stern, die Englander, they’ll never learn, When I start to shoot, They’re alles kaput, And Tommy planes, they start to burn! Chorus: Behold on my neck the Knight’s Cross! In air fighting, I am the boss, Firing guns and kanone, The Lords start to moan! Eh! Chalk up another Brit loss! Chorus: So, give me a M-e One-O-Nine! The Freidrich is really quite fine! It shoots Spits and Hurries, So I’ve got no worries, So, Give me a B-f One-O-Nine!
Cockup
It's the merry Muslim march of doom Lock step, lock step round the room Politics without AK swagger But appropriate for a camel shagger Til all our guns are locked away And Nanny State is here to stay And red and white and runny blue Do wot The Gumment says to do And if we say it's all a cock up It's grounds for Federale lock up Just give up, line up, no smoke or spit And take yer place at the government tit Or do not join in that dark night Keep doing, doing what is right Til jolly, jolly judgement day When those four horsemen make them pay
Grong
Behold! For I am become Grong, Shatterer of Worlds! I prefigure pursuit curves and napalm of a thousand suns I lead young aviators into righteous but crooked paths I causeth smoothness on the glide slope I inspire happy hour angels at midnight I direct high speed flathatting over lovelies Flaming hookers and blocking crud are mine I am the Evil Cousin. And I abide.