Simpson And His Donkey Poem by Dave SmithWhite

On the beaches of Gallipoli,
In the Straits of the Dardanelles.
The cliffs hung like tattered scenery,
On a circus carousel.
The men rode their rocking ferries,
To a dark and hostile shore;
From the heights the fire was raking,
'cause that's the luck of war.

A man walked with his donkey,
Across those alleys of fear.
A man walked with his donkey,
With his burden so dear.
A man walked with his donkey,
Through the deadly leaden hail;
A man walking with his donkey,
Surely would not fail.

A man walked with his donkey,
But it was no idle stroll.
Not a picnic or fairground fancy,
But a pit of tortured souls.
A man walked with his donkey,
With his donkey, beside;
A man walking with his donkey:
So his fallen mates could ride.

A man leant, (he was weary) ,
On his donkey to stand.
Exhausted with the furies,
On the grey sea and sand.
Such a time spent so easy,
Can be a wonder to arrive;
For a man talking to his donkey,
It was good to be alive.

A man walked with his donkey,
With his donkey in tow.
A man walked through shooting galleries,
In this valley of woe.
A man walked with his donkey,
With a sure foot and pace;
A man walking with his donkey,
Bravely saved his mates.

On the beaches of Gallipoli,
In the Straits of the Dardanelles.
A man led his stoic donkey,
Through blast and bursting shell.
Like the heroes of the ancients,
There are still bards to tell:
How Simpson and his donkey,
Made it a little less like hell!