Wednesday, 12 January 2011

The Death Of Nelson

Eager as young stags in the Autumn rut,
Swiftly each ship scours their maps,
Seeking out the glory in each angry clash,
Of their iron antlers upon the oceans,
Defending the British Empire and liberty,
From the wolves of war and anarchy,
Unleashed by revolution and regicide,
And the tyranny of Madame Guillotene,
Whose foul infection spreads from France,
Upon the wheels of groaning tumbrils,
That await in the wombs of their ships,
In the guise of pamphlets, whose ideas,
Seek fresh prey in the American colonies,
Each ship of the line high mizzen masted,
With a helm of tines, cordage and spars,
The mainsail and all its rope rigging,
Sheathed in square sails that reap the winds,
Clad in decking of ancient English oaks,
And heavy hemp ropes spun in Chatham,
Those docks where as a boy he found the sea,
Flowing in the Saxon blood in his veins,
Golden haired and in the flower of youth,
Drawn as if in a dream towards his destiny,
Drawn forth to where the lapping Medway lays,
And the glory that awaits on its turning tide.

Now comes that magnificent moment, so long awaited,
England Expects, the last order to all ships,
Stirs the spirit of the sacred British folk soul,
That flows in the veins of every sailor in the fleet,
And as the high sails strain at their leashes,
Their bonnet and drabblers billow unmuzzled,
Each ship leaps forth, sleek upon the waves,
Swift as wild salmon to the spawning ground,
Whilst the bellow and blast of royal naval cannon,
Music as sweet as Mozart to a British seaman,
The black barrels glow red with constant firing,
A fierce broadside of bursting cannonballs,
Which winnows with shrapnel the enemy decks,
Decimating their targets with iron splinters,
As the slash of cutlass and the flash of pistols,
The shriek and whine of lead chain grape shot,
And the crack and whizz of English musket rifles,
Fired by red coat marines storming enemy ships,
Drown the French decks with glorious gore,
And burn the sails of a pocked French frigate,
Whose tattered flag, red as menstrual rags,
Is being wiped on the arse of a laughing Jack Tar,
Now the terror abates, the jackal rages in its den,
Its whelps dead in the depths of Cape Trafalgar,
Whilst on the deck of HMS Victory, a hero dies,
Whose deeds enter history and become legendary.


Anonymous said...

Lee, How come you're not updating your posts regularly? You're a good entertaining and serious writer. MORE PLEASE!

Anonymous said...

I see butler and Collett are now working for the ED. If you doubt this ask A certain Steve Uncles