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The Reluctant Volunteer

My dad, no hero, didn't look

for punch-ups. When the call came

he signed for the pay corps. 

But the look on his face

sometimes got him into bother.


He couldn't quite stomach the drilling,

or hide what he thought

of the shouts, the how's your father, 

the moustache and tiny eyes,

the whole bloody rigmarole of the sergeant major. 


One night in Aldershot, he'd had enough

and went awol. It was quite simple.

At the back of a column, at a fork in the road, 

the rest marched one way, he went the other,

without a clue what was round the corner. 



◄ Big Fish in Masvingo Lake

A time that glowed ►


C Byrne

Fri 3rd Jan 2014 19:01

Liked this - last verse is great. Got a feeling that there's possibly more of the story to add to this one.

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winston plowes

Tue 16th Mar 2010 09:58

Liked this Greg, for some reason I seem to be reading lots of war poems at the moment. this would sit nicely amongst a collection of more gritty ones. It shows a different aspect of the war and is really cleaver at the end which leaves us with a what happened next feeling. Could there be three dots at the end to enphasise this? Win

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Val Cook

Tue 23rd Feb 2010 20:47

I always enjoy poems on people and life experiences Greg.Nice one.

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