Tuesday, 01 October 2013
Nil Illegitimii Carborundrum
By Thomas Moore
Soaking wet and full of dread
I sat upon my barrack bed.
A raw recruit of no renown
an idiot if not a clown.
A 'Geordie' polishing his boots
contemptuous of new recruits
in accents of Newcastle town
said words I barely understood
"don't let the bastards grind you down."
In days to come I came to find
the 'bastards' were of every kind,
some were high and some were low
grinding quick or grinding slow
but gradually in some strange way
I understood the state of play
and set out to learn every curse
block every challenge and each blow
until the happy day did come
when I was 'Bastard' No 1.
[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]