Queen Vicky, bless her soul.
She calls us
To the skirmish.
She calls us
From our leave.
The women say their goodbyes.
Scarce time to gripe
Or greave.
Our kit is packed
right quickly.
Blades all sharp and shine.
And rifles are Martinis
No better friend of mine.
‘Cept shovel flipping
Filth by day
Or carcass
Cold by night.
The two friends give
Us half a chance
In any Empire’s fight.
So where, dear Vicki
Sending?
Arab, Sikh, Natal?
You call the shots
We know the lot.
We’ll march for you
To Hell.
Of that we sing
Right well.
Yes Ma’am.
We’ll fight for
You to Hell.
Hurrah.
About this poem
Thinking of Rudyard Kipling’s wonderful poem, The Widow of Windsor. Or perhaps Tommy is another story of merit. All done in the soldier’s vernacular. I am also presently reading of The Defence of Rorke’s Drift. A super-human withstanding of thousands of Zulu warriors. By the Queen’ s bravest. January 22, 1879…many Victoria Crosses given.
Written on May 27, 2023
Submitted by dougb.19255 on May 27, 2023
Modified by dougb.19255 on May 31, 2023
- 37 sec read
- 20 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AxAbxxb xcdxdexafxxf cexxxxgegxxgx |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic dimeter |
Characters | 558 |
Words | 124 |
Stanzas | 3 |
Stanza Lengths | 7, 12, 13 |
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"Queen Vicky, bless her soul." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/160238/queen-vicky,-bless-her-soul.>.
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