Poems March 2005
Robby stretching his legs
First thing I’m gonna do is swipe a car
and get myself back here. Course I can drive.
It’s easy, a girl could do it. An Italian
girl could do it, couldn’t you Joey? First thing.
Second thing, hook up with the Upton gang.
Do a little business, coin a phrase,
waste not want not, dig for victory
blah blah blah. Move up west. Next thing.
Next thing, well. Meet an American starlet.
They have them in their army, not starlets,
females, and their army’s going to come,
I heard a rumour if we’re in a hole.
This? This ain’t a hole. This school’s a hole
but we were just unlucky. Took a hit.
Like Mr Albie Rogers is pretending
happened to his house. And you, Jew-seppy,
what are you, vapour trail? We ain’t in a hole.
Our boys’ll see off Adolf. If we don’t,
the stars of the United States, I tell you,
they’re trained and they fight dirty, they’re luscious.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 Number 7, on page 35
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