The Moods of Ginger Mick

XII. Rabbits

C.J. Dennis

“AR! Gimme fights wiv foeman I kin see,
    To upper-cut an’ wallop on the jor.
Life in a burrer ain’t no good to me.
                    ’Struth! This ain’t war!
Gimme a ding-dong go fer ’arf a round,
An’ you kin ’ave this crawlin’ underground.

“Gimme a ragin’, ’owlin’, tearin’, scrap,
    Wiv room to swing me left, an’ feel it land.
This ’idin’, sneakin’ racket makes a chap
                    Feel secon’-’and.
Stuck in me dug-out ’ere, down in a ’ole,
I’m feelin’ like I’ve growed a rabbit’s soul.”

Ole Ginger’s left the ’orspital, it seems;
    ’E’s back at Anzac, cursin’ at the game;
Fer this ’ere ain’t the fightin’ uv ’is dreams;
                    It’s too dead tame.
’E’s got the oopizootics reely bad,
An’ ’idin’ in a burrer makes ’im mad.

’E sort o’ takes it personal, yeh see.
     ’E used to ’awk ’em fer a crust, did Mick.
Now, makin’ ’im play rabbits seems to be
                    A narsty trick.
To shove ’im like a bunny down a ’ole
It looks like chuckin’ orf, an’ sours ’is soul.

“Fair doos,” ’e sez, “I joined the bloomin’ ranks
    To git away frum rabbits: thinks I’m done
Wiv them Australian pests, an’ ’ere’s their thanks:
                    They makes me one!
An’ ’ere I’m squattin’, scared to shift about;
Jist waitin’ fer me little tail to sprout.

“Ar, strike me up a wattle! but it’s tough!
    But ’ere’s the dizzy limit, fer a cert—
To live this bunny’s life is bad enough,
                    But ’ere’s reel dirt:
Some tart at ’ome ’as sent, wiv lovin’ care,
A coat uv rabbit-skins fer me to wear!

“That’s done it! Now I’m nibblin’ at the food,
    An’ if a dawg shows up I’ll start to squeal;
I s’pose I orter melt wiv gratichude:
                    ’Tain’t ’ow I feel.
She might ’a’ fixed a note on wiv a pin:
‘Please, Mister Rabbit, yeh fergot yer skin!’

“I sees me finish! . . . War? Why, this ain’t war!
    It’s ferritin’! An’ I’m the bloomin’ game.
Me skin alone is worth the ’untin’ for—
                    That tart’s to blame!
Before we’re done, I’ve got a silly scare,
Some trappin’ Turk will catch me in snare.

“’E’ll skin me, wiv the others ’e ’as there,
    An’ shove us on a truck, an’ bung us ’round
Constantinople at a bob a pair—
                    Orl fresh an’ sound!
’Eads down, ’eels up, ’e’ll ’awk us in a row
Around the ’arems, ’owlin ‘Rabbee-oh!’

“But, dead in earnest, it’s a job I ’ate.
    We’ve got to do it, an’ it’s gittin’ done;
But this soul-dopin’ game uv sit-an’-wait,
                    It ain’t no fun.
There’s times I wish, if we weren’t short uv men,
That I wus back in ’orspital again.

“Ar, ’orspital! There is the place to git.
    If I thort Paradise wus ’arf so snug
I’d shove me ’ead above the parapit
                    An’ stop a slug;
But one thing blocks me playin’ sich a joke;
I want another scrap before I croak.

“I want it bad. I want to git right out
    An’ plug some josser in the briskit—’ard.
I want to ’owl an’ chuck me arms about,
                    An’ jab, an’ guard.
An’ swing, an’ upper-cut, an’ crool some pitch,
Or git passed out meself—I don’t care w’ich.

“There’s some blokes ’ere they’ve tumbled to a stunt
    Fer gittin’ ’em the spell that they deserves.
They chews some cordite when life at the front
                    Gits on their nerves.
It sends yer tempracher clean out uv sight,
An’, if yeh strike a simple doc, yer right.

“I tries it once. Me soul ’ad got the sinks,
    Me thorts annoyed me, an’ I ’ad the joes,
I feels like no one loves me, so I thinks,
                    Well, Mick, ’ere goes!
I breaks a cartridge open, chews a bit,
Reports I’m sick, an’ throws a fancy fit.

“Me lovin’ sargint spreads the gloomy noos,
    I gits paraded; but, aw, ’Struth! me luck!
It weren’t no baby doc I interviews,
                    But some ole buck
Wiv gimblet eyes. ‘Put out yer tongue!’ ’e ’owls.
Then takes me temp, an’ stares at me, an’ growls.

“’Well, well,’ ’e sez. ‘Wot is yer trouble, lad?’
    I grabs me tummy ’ard, an’ sez I’m ill.
‘You are,’ sez ’e. ‘Yeh got corditis, bad.
                    Yeh need a pill.
Before yeh go to sleep,’ ’e sez, ‘to-night,
Swaller the bullet, son, an’ you’ll be right.’

“’Ow’s that fer rotten luck? But orl the same,
    I ain’t complainin’ when I thinks it out.
I seen it weren’t no way to play the game,
                    This pullin’ out.
We’re orl uv us in this to see it thro’,
An’ bli’me, wot we’ve got to do, we’ll do.

“But ’oles an’ burrers! Strike! An’ this is war!
    This is the bonzer scrappin’ uv me dreams!
A willin’ go is wot I bargained for,
                    But ’ere it seems
I’ve died, someway, an’ bin condemned to be
Me own Wile Rabbee fer eternity.

“But ’orspital! I tell yeh, square an’ all,
    If I could meet the murderin’ ole Turk
’Oo’s bullet sent me there to loaf an’ sprawl,
                    An’ dodge me work,
Lord! I’d shake ’an’s wiv ’im, an’ thank ’im well
Fer givin’ me a reel ole bonzer spell.

“’E might ’a’ made it jist a wee bit worse.
    I’d stand a lot uv that before I’d scream.
The grub wus jist the thing; an’, say, me nurse I
                    She wus a dream!
I used to treat them tony tarts wiv mirth;
But now I know why they wus put on earth.

“It treated me reel mean, that wound uv mine;
    It ’ealed too quick, considerin’ me state.
An’ ’ere I am, back in the firin’ line
                    Gamblin’ wiv Fate.
It’s like two-up: I’m ’eadin’ ’em this trip;
But Iookin’, day be day, to pass the kip.

“You tell Doreen, yer wife, ’ow I am chock
    Full to the neck wiv thanks fer things she sends.
Each time I shoves me foot inside a sock
                    I bless sich friends.
I’m bustin’ wiv glad thorts fer things she did;
So tell ’er I serloots ’er, an’ the kid.

“Make ’im a soljer, chum, when ‘e gits old.
    Teach ’im the tale uv wot the Anzacs did.
Teach ’im ’e’s got a land to love an’ hold.
                    Gawd bless the kid!
But I’m in ’opes when ’is turn comes around
They’ll chuck this style uv rootin’ underground.

“We’re up agin it, mate; we know that well.
    There ain’t a man among us wouldn’t lob
Over the parapit an’ charge like ’ell
                    To end the job.
But this is war; an’ discipline—well, lad,
We sez we ’ates it; but we ain’t too bad.

“Glory an’ gallant scraps is wot I dreamed,
    Ragin’ around an’ smashin’ foeman flat;
But war, like other thngs, ain’t wot it seems.
                    So ’stid uv that,
I’m sittin; in me dug-out scrawlin’ this,
An’ thankin’ Gawd when shells go by—an’ miss.

“I’m sittin’ in me dug-out day be day—
    It narks us; but Australia’s got a name
Fer doin’ little jobs like blokes ’oo play
                    A clean straight game.
Wiv luck I might see scrappin’ ’fore I’m done,
Or go where Craig ’as gone, an’ miss the fun.

“But if I dodge, an’ keep out uv the rain,
    An’ don’t toss in me alley ’fore we wins;
An’ if I lobs back ’ome an’ meets the Jane
                    ’Oo sent the skins—
These bunnies’ overcoats I lives inside—
I’ll squeal at ’er, an’ run away an’ ’ide.

“But, torkin’ straight, the Janes ’as done their bit.
    I’d like to ’ug the lot, orl on me pat!
They warms us well, the things they’ve sewed an’ knit:
                    An’ more than that—
I’d like to tell them dear Australian tarts
The spirit uv it warms Australian ’earts.”

The Moods of Ginger Mick - Contents    |     XIII. To the Boys Who Took the Count

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