The Trenches, Not So Fondly Remembered. Poem by archie hardie

Wwhen cold November blows it`s bitter deadly breath,
ah`m back wi` ma mates, ma comrades in arms
knee deep in a stinkin` french trench.
Aye, there was Stewart McGregor, an Wullie McTurk,
an` bowlegged Donny fae Skye,
an` big Brig`ton Billy, an` wee Possil Gilly,
an` poor daft cockeyed McKay.
Man anythin` repulsive, outrageous, contageous, ,
McKay claimed for his own,
he got boils an` pimples,
cold sores on his dimples, sure nothin` would pass him by.
Ah ken* when an abcess popped oot in his oaxter, *
next day he got wan on each cheek,
an` if that little lot was not more than enough,
he had piles upon piles as well.
Ah mind skinnymalinky McCallister,
an` fat Cammy Cameron, fae Troon,
an` a third guy, their mate, fae that place on the Clyde
he just fell on his bunk an` died.
Aye! he was here one minute, gone the next,
such a big braw strappin` lad,
His fine brass medal goat loast in the post,
an` his lass died wi` a broken heart.
An` me, weel ah can`t complain
cos ah`m sittin, drinkin` beer at the bar,
tho` I do miss me left ear, an` right eye, ye ken,
an` the other half o` a guid pair o` legs.

archie hardie, (old,16/11/03) re-done 29/9/07.

*ken, remember.*oaxter, armpit.