Little boy blue, come blow on your whistle

And stomp on the Kaffirs and grind'em to gristle

And stop them from smokin' (though you'll smoke when you can)

Oh out on the streets you're a very hard man.

Then it's down to the pub and you'll drink nine or ten

And nurture self pity in scotch once again

Then its back to the pig sty you think of as home

Or to the Front Line where the Kaffirs all roam


Little boy blue come take one more drink

And gulp it and sip it and on the floor sink

And you wake the next morning looking as grey

As the newsprint that tells of your exploits each day

And you look at the streets and you stock take your life

And you long for security, kids (and a wife)

But loving and sharing don't enter the plan

Even at home, you're a very hard man.

Poetry and Prose Archives

Witchone

17.07.03 Front Page

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