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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:

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.

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

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



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!

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....


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!

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!


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!


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!


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!


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


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.