The Farrier-Sergeant's Memory: A Poem From The Black Country Poem by Len Webster

That was the day newspapermon come
Haulin' his camera to the Front
Ready for victory.

I'd half-dragged the 'oss meself,
Was bloody exhausted and d'ain't much like pen-pushers
At the best a times.

Tuppenny-'a'penny clerks the lot on 'em.
Never did a day's work or turned
Their hands to anythin'.

Lyin' there, next to the carriage and dozin',
I thought of May and the little un,
Wondered where I'd goo once it was all over.

Back home, I supposed, wherever that'd be.
Smethwick, I supposed, but there was always India.

It was a mon's life in the Army
And you served your King and Country.

That's what we'd all signed up for,
To do our duty, to have an adventure,
To serve our King and Country,
To be (God willing) heroes.

Then come a clickin' and a puff
That med me flinch.
I opened an eye and seen the weasel grin,
'You'll go down in history, mate, ' he said.

No mate a mine.
I cursed him dead and closed the eye.
You had to sleep when you could.
The 'oss was tired and all.

But even lookin' up at the twitchin' camera hand
I thought how small and saft he looked,
The pen-pusher with that glassy eye.