(an uncouth case of timing on the day the first Gulf war ended)

 

Down in the gulf the war was finished

(A blink, and it might have all been missed)

Sadaam was sad and quite diminished

As out in the desert the victors kissed.

 

In Paradise the Ancient Valour

Looked forward with a grave delight

To pro-and-con it in Valhalla,

That coming Friday`s `Viking Night`.

 

(Stonewall Jackson, sword on hip,

Smirked a furtive smile to Lee,

While Saladin`s contemptuous lip

Scorned the unequal weaponry.)

 

But the prior, immediate demand

Was a lamentation for the dead,

As Odin bid each warrior stand

Respectfully and bare his head.

 

This done, they all suppressed their views

And sat in quiet conversation

Till someone said, `Turn on the news,

Switch it to the British station`

 

And, Lo! On the Celestial tele,

In that icy manner, all his own,

Was Board of Trade man Peter Lilley

Assuaging the financier`s moan.

 

Of course, he said, in his preamble

He`d elbowed Britain to the fore

Of the uncouth and greedy scramble

For contracts to repair the war

 

While he thus reassured the banks

Thick profits soon would ooze again,

On the road to Basra twisted tanks

Crushed inextricable, mangled men.

 

God! The slain were not yet buried,

Some of the wounded not quite dead.

In crawling masses flies were serried,

Black on festering, putrid heads.

 

The Ancient Valour, shocked, disgusted,

Uttered one long communal moan

While, shamed, the British Military mustered

To make their feelings swiftly known.

 

And over the ministry, broken hearted

(Militarily crude, but appropriate – fit)

Alfred pissed and Nelson farted,

Wellington vomited…(Cromwell shit)