Domino Theory or, Who’s Next?

 

…………there’s ten in the bed and the

Little one says……….

There’s ten little Indians

All sitting on cake,

But the candles are out,

There’s nothing to blow

Except dead air,

     And each little Indian -

Each child to sleep

Wonders in haste

If the drink that they took

Be laced with hate,

     Ten in the bed and the little

One says roll over,

Roll over, so they all roll

Over and one falls out –

And it’s a series of dominoes

All dying with shout;-

‘The syndrome exists!’

(As the wall of fatalities

Gains another inscription)

A writers - a readers column

Of fiction for the none

Believers.

 

      All little Indians look

Now to themselves,

Looking each in the eye

Wondering who’s next to be killed,

The Sapper -

The Grunt

The Cook -

The Planks,

The Logs

The Commando

The Signals

The Tanks,

The Para

A Raghead –

The SAS or The Boats,

There’s nothing beyond

The Deserts to boast.

 

Twenty-five years of

Dodging the bullets and scuds,

Makes a man in his dreams

Still fighting The Gulf,

     And it’s ten little Indians

Ten hot bedding in barracks,

Ten shattered of living

Shitting ten times

Their soul,

     And their children

Become bastards -

Their wives black widows

Of sorrow,

     The nation they served

Dishing only the cold.

 

     Ten black carbon lined

Body bags for ten little Indians,

Ten graves of Indians

Bagged twenty feet down,

Ten rolling over onto the floor,

Ten soldiers in madness

Knowing only deserts of war.

 

Michael J Waite 30th July 2015.