A box of mini soldiers, some dice and Sean Bean
There was thunder over Europe,
At the wargames club,
as the cannons blazed and shed.
Mass lines of plastic/pewter fighting men
by those great leaders led,
marched on brave with discipline.
Hordes of galloping colours
sabres shining bright,
grateful to enamel paints and varnish,
a bugle charge and forward
brigades heavy and light.
Just make it up as we go.
We all seem Sharpe. Or Zulu.
The dusty clouds of war erupted,
From Rifle shots from skirmishers,
as blue and red lines clash
like Titans colliding.
Especially when hit by the dice.
as bullets pierce and flash
then ranks fire simultaneously.
Lancers to the left of them
hussars flank their right
scarlet squares protrude
displaying the British might
as the riders breathe their smoke.
Now we see the bayonets frenzy,
Under a haze of cigarettes and ashtrays,
as men fall sliced with death.
The guns shudder behind our depleting numbers,
as they gasp their final breath
and then the columns advance - for glory.
All done in the best possible taste of a gentleman officer.
If only all wars could be fought this way!
DavidAddington
Mon 18th Jan 2016 16:09
It's defo about toy soldiers but when I was 25/26 with friends of same age and we were all unemployed and got into table top games for a time. I was always attracted to Napoleonic history and little plastic men so it grew from there. Painting their uniforms. The first draft of this poem was just about history, but corny, so I adapted it to represent the games we played drunk and wrecked on other things and visits to war games. The last lines are meant to be ambivalent and confuse. Gentlemen officers were us crew and the last line is something we often thought about - wars becoming games to save life.
It still needs a bit of ork.