Monday, 30 June 2014


It's Davies.
That stupid bastard,
He just won't die.
He just lies
On the side of this hill
And he cries.
Cries for his Momma.

They sent me peach-fuzz,
Girls with rose-petal lips.
When what I needed was shits
From the London streets;
Street-wise, ugly snouts
And they sent me choir-boys
With mealy-mouths.

Some huge black bastard
Caught me on the hop,
And after all these years?
This is where I stop,
And I can't fucking
Go in peace
Cause he just won't die.

I scream,
And he cries
"Sarge," he cries,"Sarge...
It hurts...It hurts..."

So I call out to him:
"Close your eyes,boy,
Go to sleep,
Think of your girl's teat..."
"I can't Sarge, I can't
It's still light..."

Well let me tell you,
Whoever spoke
About the gloom
And silence of the tomb
Hanging over
Battlefield grounds
Was some fucking poet
Who never heard the sounds
Of the sucking of air
Into punctured lungs
And the groans
And moans of bloody
Clarence Davies-Jones,
Who won't fucking die
And leave me alone,
To take my own
Journey home.

Manuela Cardiga

Rorke's Drift was one of the battles in the Zulu War.

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