A. P. Herbert Poems

The filthy guest has gone? You'll need a wash:
But London will not wait to kiss your hand.
We have the bombing. But you had the Boche—
...

Kill Hitler? Why? A Himmler takes his place.
There'll be no rest till you destroy the race.
Besides, he'd be a hero if he died.
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(To the Luftwaffe)
How proud you must be, boys, you who were Lords of the Air,
Playing with fireworks, deep in a concrete cave.
Pressing a button and killing you know not where,
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Heed not the sighs and sermons,
Go, gallant lads, again.
Let some folk think of Germans—
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It is a wonder, this tough, tiny isle,
With such a load of metal and of men,
That she can sleep, that she can sleep and smile,
While half the planet twitters 'Where?' and 'When?*
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In all the history of Balkan bruisers!
I think the Bulgar fascinates me most,
Who simply can't refrain from backing losers,
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You ought to have a medal, Mrs. More,
The medal for the Coupon and the Queue,
The Cross for Courage on the Kitchen Floor,
The Order of the Scrubbing-Brush and Stew.
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God bless those mighty brains,
The brilliant and the brave,
That bear a planet's pains
And dig the devil's grave!
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This ten-year Parliament that sprang, they say,
From far-off causes and a different day,
This jaded, old, unrepresenting 'rump',
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Let us recall that every crazy creed
Sprang from the same unpleasing Prussian breed.
...