Had to share- and with Veteran's day approaching too.

I've been thinking of that one a lot lately. Here's a link to the text:

http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_tommy.htm

An open letter to Democrats and all other liberals . . .

At this moment in time, George W. Bush is the correct president for this once free repuiblic !!! So stop second-guessing yourself. You know what you know . . . you know ??? The inner tickling that you sense is your own highest truth. It will serve you well. It's telling you to support president George W. Bush !!!

The backfire comes when you deny or discount it. Yes indeed, take in information from all sides, yet trust that inner tickling, knowing that you . . . and you alone . . . know what's best for you !!! If all day long you pine to paint, then paint, for that is what you must do. If you ache to walk beside the ocean, find a way to get there !!!

And if you, like so many millions of Americans, want to again move this country in the direction of unblemished truth, unfettered light and genuine prosperity . . . then do so !!! Because without complete trust in that inner tickle, you are left to rust at the feet of liberal democrats and their socialistic absurdities !!!

Therefore . . . Go . . . Now . . . Relieve your inner tickle . . . SUPPORT PRSIDENT GEORGE W. BUSH !!!

Thanks babble- keep the faith. Regards, Hoot

Worth posting. I've been thinking about this poem recently too:

Tommy

I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ; But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside "; But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap. An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? " But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind," But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! " But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

That's awesome, thanks for posting it here.

Pretty much how histories leaders and Governments treat the middle and lower classes.
One way to look at it atleast.

Listening to all the moronic callers to C-SPAN last night, GWB's speech was just a pep rally, with not enough specificity as to when or where this war will end, what the end points are.

At the same time on MSNBC David Gergen is praising the speech, saying it is just what the country needs from a president.

With 50 years of a rotten educational system, some people just can't live with ambiguity. Couple that with the need for instant gratification and C-SPAN's lurch to the left,and....Voila! moronic voters and callers.

Bump for Rudyard K.

And a further Kipling bump, with another piece we should have in our minds post 9/11. We're just getting started on their paying the price.

The Grave of the Hundred Head

by Rudyard Kipling.

There's a widow in sleepy Chester

Who weeps for her only son;

There's a grave on the Pabeng River,

A grave that the Burmans shun;

And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri

Who tells how the work was done.

 

A Snider squibbed in the jungle-

Somebody laughed and fled,

And the men of the First Shikaris

Picked up their Subaltern dead,

With a big blue mark in his forehead

And the back blown out of his head.

 

Subadar Prag Tewarri,

Jemadar Hira Lal,

Took command of the party,

Twenty rifles in all,

Marched them down to the river

As the day was beginning to fall.

 

They buried the boy by the river,

A blanket over his face-

They wept for their dead Lieutenant,

The men of an alien race-

They made a samadh¹ in his honour,

A mark for his resting-place.

 

For they swore by the Holy Water,

They swore by the salt they ate,

That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib

Should go to his God in state,

With fifty file of Burmans

To open him Heaven's Gate.

 

The men of the First Shikaris

Marched till the break of day,

Till they came to the rebel village

The village of Pabengmay-

A jingal² covered the clearing,

Caltrops hampered the way.

 

Subadar Prag Tewarri,

Biddin₈ them load with ball,

Halted a dozen rifles

Under the village wall;

Sent out a flanking-party

With Jemadar Hira Lal.

The men of the First Shikaris

Shouted and smote and slew,

Turning the grinning jingal

On to the howling crew.

The Jemadar's flanking-party

Butchered the folk who flew.

 

Long was the morn of slaughter,

Long was the list of slain,

Five score heads were taken,

Five score heads and twain;

And the men of the First Shikaris

Went back to their grave again,

 

Each man bearing a basket

Red as his palms that day,

Red as the blazing village-

The village of Pabengmay

And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets

Reddened the grass by the way

 

They made a pile of their trophies

High as a tall man's chin,

Head upon head distorted,

Set in a sightless grin,

Anger and pain and terror

Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.

 

Subadar Prag Tewarri

Put the head of the Boh

On the top of the mound of triumph,

The head of his son below-

With the sword and the peacock banner

That the world might behold and know.

Thus the samadh was perfect,

Thus was the lesson plain

Of the wrath of the First Shikaris-

The price of white man slain;

And the men of the First Shikaris

Went back into camp again.

 

Then a silence came to the river,

A hush fell over the shore,

And Bohs that were brave departed,

And Sniders squibbed no more;

For the Burmans said

That a white man's head

Must be paid for with heads five-score.

More Kipling. Good advice for a soldier. The last stanza is topical. Sorry about the format When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier. Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier. Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts -- An' it's bad for the young British soldier. Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt -- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An' it crumples the young British soldier. Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier. Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier. Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier. 'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! -- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier. Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier. Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier. Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier. Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier. Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen!

Another good one!

Worth another post with the formatting cleaned up (I love the "view partial source" feature of IE). Note the link to more Kipling immediately below.

Rudyard Kipling

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased    Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.     Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,     Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,     Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,          So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen! Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:    A soldier what's fit for a soldier.     Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . . First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --    An' it's bad for the young British soldier.     Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . . When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt -- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,    An' it crumples the young British soldier.     Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . . But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,    An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.     Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . . If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find    That it's beer for the young British soldier.     Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . . Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,    Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.     'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . . If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! -- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er:  that's Hell for them both,    An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.     Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . . When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck    And march to your front like a soldier.     Front, front, front like a soldier . . . When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,    An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.     Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . . When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,    For noise never startles the soldier.     Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . . If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,    And wait for supports like a soldier.     Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . . When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains    An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.     Go, go, go like a soldier,     Go, go, go like a soldier,     Go, go, go like a soldier,          So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

another bump for a culturally significant and highly appropriate thread!