Patton's Poetry
THE TURDS OF THE SCOUTS
The scout sat in the cactus shade
He labored mightily
That he did try to take a shit
Was very plain to see.
For days and weeks he'd ridden hard
He'd eaten many a meal
Yet every morn he waits in vain
Some bowel movement to feel.
Now scouts by nature are so bad
That long-imprisoned turds
Must soon assume their parent's shape
And too be evil birds.
The faces which in common folk
Resembles pumpkin pies
In scouts assumes a texture dark
Yes, lives and breathes and sighs.
Now as the scout his labor pressed
At last he seemed to feel
A slimy thing crawl from his ass
And purr against his heel.
He little recked, the hardy brute
The suffering he did cause
He did not pause to wipe his ass
He just pulled up his drawers.
He jumped upon his sore backed horse
And galloped fast away
Oh! little heeded he or cared
What his dying turd would say.
It lay and suffered in the heat
Its limpid eyes rolled high
And from its fast congealing gills
Escaped a gentle sigh.
I came upon it suffering there
I sobbed to see its pain
When the pale green fog my nostrils reached
I held my nose in vain.
I dashed in agony away
My pity turned to pain
And as the sun dipped in the west
It sighed and died amain.
REFERENCE: B AND B3c-24614
FILE: INV. FORM A62B-M. Q.
As Head of the Division of Provision for Revision
Was a man of prompt decision--Morton Quirk.
Ph.D. in Calisthenics, P. D. Q. in Pathogenics
He has just the proper background for the work.
From the pastoral aroma of
With a pittance of a salary in hand
His acceptance had been whetted, even aided and abetted
By emolument that netted some five grand.
So, with energy ecstatic this fanatic left his attic
And hastened on to
Where with verve and vim and vigor, he went hunting for the Nigger
In the woodpile of the W. P. B.
After months of patient process Morton's picular
proboscis
Had unearthed a reprehensible hiatus
In reply by Blair and Blair to his thirteenth questionnaire
In connection with their inventory status.
They had written--"Your directive when effective was defective
"In its ultimate objective--and what's more
"Neolithic hieroglyphic is, to us, much more specific
"Than the drivel you keep dumping at our door."
This sacrilege discovered, Morton fainted--but recovered
Sufficiently to write, "We are convinced
"That sabotage is camouflaged behind perverted persiflage.
"Expect me on the 22nd inst."
But first he sent a checker, then he sent a
checker's checker
Still nothing was disclosed as being wrong.
So a checker's checker's checker came to check the
checker's checker
And the process was laborious and long.
Then followed a procession of the follow-up profession
Through the records of the firm of Blair and Blair.
From breakfast until supper some new super-follow-upper
Tore his hair because of Morton's questionnaire.
The file is closed, completed, though our Hero, undefeated
Carries on in some Department as before.
And Vict'ry is in sight of--not because of--but in
spite of
Doctor Morton's mighty efforts in the war.
WIGGLERS
1921
You can't remember, dearest
For your memory fades too fast,
The beginning of our loving
In the warm and foggy past.
When vapor from the tepid sea
Hung ever in the air,
And rivulets of pinkish mud
Went trickling past us there.
No, you can't remember even
Of the later lukewarm time
When you and I were wigglers,
Wiggling in the pale gray slime.
When our mouths were all our reason
And our bellies all our soul,
When we bred and died and rotted,
By the billion on the shoal.
Yet for ever and forever,
As the cooling waters flow
Past the green of long dead coal fields
Past the continents of snow.
Yes, forever and as truly
As the waters changeless are,
Have I fought for, sought and found thee
As tonight beneath the star.
Ever fearing, ever hoping
Ever winning thee at last,
But to lose thee to regain thee,
In the present from the past.
THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.
In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.
I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.
I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.
I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.
I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.
Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.
In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.
While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.
Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite's leveled spear.
See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.
Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.
Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.
I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.
Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my flemish plate
gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on
In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.
Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.
I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.
And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.
Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in it's quivering gloom.
So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell's ghastly glow.
So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, -- but always me.
And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.
So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.