Old Soldiers' Home

It is time for toast and tea, old chap.
Princess does her wash on Monday
before she visits at one o'clock
and counts an hour in the parlor.

The shows on the tele come and go
faster than afternoon naps at three
when I dream in my trench I'm brushing the teeth
of Simone of the mud-stained knees
while Benny is blown to kingdom come.

"Condolences to the mother, Son.
Write something nice, the usual tripe,
God save the King in my trench by three.
You there, Symington! Up to trench one!

Carry on. Carry on."

"Carrion is what was left of Benny,"
I said, but then again we all were skewed,
learning our "Isms" and all of their schisms
and lest we forget the crass and the crazy
God save the aristocracy

their sterling silver, better cars,
and mining more ore for better wars
who sell us their cabbage for cabbage soup,
which rolls off the tongue quite easily
better in the Queen's English.

I shall recite some after tea,
but lest you stay, Mad Hatter, old chap,
come back tonight after my nap
to have more jam on toast with me

when the queen is on the tele.