We all knew that poets were big girls blouses,
in great floppy berets and velveteen trousers.
They were lah di dah, flower-sniffing, soft southern jessies,
skipping through meadows in their sister’s pink dresses.

But look at these other guys the teacher once said
Real men who lie in a foreign field dead
And all of these chaps, though admittedly posh,
would willingly go out and murder the Bosch

They’d stab them and gas them and fill ‘em with lead.
And then write a harrowing poem before bed.
Look how they write of the blood and the stench,
and the horror of spending your days in a trench.

That was more like it but still we weren’t swayed.
Didn’t these poet guys ever get laid?
Well this drunk Welsh bloke he wrote some great stuff,
he didn’t get laid much but he wasn’t a puff.

Well maybe she didn’t quite put it that way,
but that’s what I think she was trying to say.
Then she showed us some saddo who was clutching at straws,
to get his coy mistress to lower her drawers.

He should ask Tracy Skelding Miss, that’s what we said,
she’ll do it any time, look she’s gone red.
So no Miss we still think they’re all golden haired nonces
and simpering, light-loafered, girly boy ponces.

Another quality poem from you, Sir_Nigel, and very, very humorous. :)

Thankyou thankyou. Glad you liked it

Fantastic Sir_Nigel! Really liked the poem & very amusing, as good as anything I’ve seen of this genre, two points: You put “Bosch” instead of “Boche” – this may cause confusion to people who are well informed about kitchen appliances and cause them to wonder why the lads were riddling a washing machine with lead. :)

The second point is that the poem would be more readable if it was structured into four line stanzas, so I’ve edited your original to reflect this – hope you don’t mind – as you can see it looks a bit more orderly.

As Coyleys would say : Well done that man! Keep up the good work!