“The Wicked Witch”
She told me she was a witch
And she did cast a certain dark magic
Painting herself with a false glamour
And a certain genteel need.
But eventually the magic blew away
Like stale chaff on the wind
Redolent with the smell of rot
Leptospirosis and dirty ashtrays
Revealing a face scarred with avarice
Carefully manicured nails grasping
The genteel need replaced by spite
And all consuming greed.
She told me she craved the company
Of old soldiers, loving the smell
Of sweet gun oil on sunburned skin
The faint whiff of cordite and adrenaline
But it was our stories she wanted
To steal them and adopt them as her own
So that the seven stone weakling appear giant
A ‘Rupert’… a born leader of men!
When I gave her no stories of blood
She stole, instead, my money
Eleven Thousand Pounds credit
On which I still pay interest!
Eleven thousand pounds
Of my son’s inheritance, who never did her wrong
And she thinks herself worthy to lecture
On Honour and Integrity?
She told me in her own land
She was a Princess. But in my land
Her own words label her LIAR
Her actions brand her THIEF
I am only a crippled old soldier
And my sins are too many to name
But I never stole from comrade or lover
Give me back my “shilling a day”!
Like the pi-dogs of the desert
She scavenged behind the march
But she’s not welcome in the camp
And she is unfit
At my small fire
Copyright © Res JFB 13th May 2013