The Moods of Ginger Mick

II. War

C.J. Dennis

’E SEZ to me, “Wot’s orl this flamin’ war?
    The papers torks uv nothin’ else but scraps.
An’ wot’s ole England got snake-’eaded for?
    An’ wot’s the strength uv callin’ out our chaps?”
’E sez to me, “Struth! Don’t she rule the sea?
Wot does she want wiv us?” ’e sez to me.

Ole Ginger Mick is loadin’ up ’is truck
    One mornin’ in the markit feelin’ sore.
’E sez to me, “Well, mate, I’ve done me luck;
    An’ Rose is arstin’, ‘Wot about this war?’
I’m gone a tenner at the two-up school;
The game is crook, an’ Rose is turnin’ cool.”

’E sez to me, “’Ow is it fer a beer?”
    I tips ’im ’ow I’ve told me wife, Doreen,
That when I comes down to the markit ’ere
    I dodges pubs, an’ chucks the tipple, clean.
Wiv ’er an’ kid alone up on the farm
She’s full uv fancies that I’ll come to ’arm.

“’Enpecked!” ’e sez. An’ then, “Ar, I dunno.
    I wouldn’t mind if I wus in yer place.
I’ve ’arf a mind to give cold tea a go—
    It’s no game, pourin’ snake-juice in yer face.
But, lad, I ’ave to, wiv the thirst I got.
I’m goin’ over now to stop a pot.”

’E goes acrost to find a pint a ’ome;
    An’ meets a pal an’ keeps another down.
Ten minutes later, when ’e starts to roam
    Back to the markit, wiv an ugly frown,
’E spags a soljer bloke ’oo’s passin’ by,
An’ sez ’e’d like to dot ’im in the eye.

“Your sort,” sez Mick, “don’t know yer silly mind!
    They lead yeh like a sheep; it’s time yeh woke—
The ’eads is makin’ piles out uv your kind!”
    “Aw, git yer ’ead read!” sez the soljer bloke.
’Struth! ’e wus willin’ wus that Kharki’ chap;
I ’ad me work cut out to stop a scrap.

An ’as the soljer fades acrost the street,
    Mick strikes a light an’ sits down on ’is truck,
An’ chews ’is fag—a sign ’is nerve is beat—
    An’ swears a bit, an’ sez ’e’s done is luck.
’E grouches there ten minutes, maybe more,
Then sez quite sudden, “Blarst the flamin’war!

Jist then a motor car goes glidin’ by
    Wiv two fat toffs be’ind two fat cigars;
Mick twigs ’em frum the corner uv ’is eye—
    “I ’ope,” ’e sez, “the ’Uns don’t git my cars.
Me di’mons, too, don’t let me sleep a wink . . . 
Ar, ’Struth! I’d fight fer that sort—I don’t think.”

’E sits there while I ’arness up me prad,
    Chewin’ ’is gag an’ starin’ at the ground.
I tumbles that ’e’s got the joes reel bad,
    An’ don’t say nothin’ till ’e comes around.
’E sez ’is luck’s a nark, an’ swears some more.
An’ then: “Wot is the strength uv this ’ere war?”

I tells ’im wot I read about the ’Uns,
    An’ wot they done in Beljum an’ in France,
Wiv drivin’ Janes an’ kids before their guns,
    An’ never givin’ blokes a stray dawg’s chance;
An’ ’ow they think they got the whole world beat.
Sez ’e, “I’ll crack the first Ducth cow I meet!”

Mick listen, while I tell ’im ’ow they starts
    Be burnin’ pore coves ’omes an’ killin’ kids,
An’ comin’ it reel crook wiv decent tarts,
    An’ fightin’ foul, as orl the rules forbids,
Leavin’ a string uv stiff-uns in their track.
Sez Mick, “The dirt cows! They wants a crack!”

’E chews it over soid fer a bit,
    Workin’ ’is copper-top a double shift.
I don’t need specs to see that ’e wus ’it
    Be somethin’ more than Rosie’s little rift.
“If they’d done that,” ’e sez, “out ’ere—Ar, rats!
Why don’t ole Eng;and belt ’em in the slats?”

Then Mick gits up an’ starts another fag.
    “Ar, well,” ’e sez, “it’s no affair uv mine,
If I don’t work they’d pinch me on the vag;
    But I’m not keen to fight so toffs kin dine
On pickled olives . . . Blarst the flamin’ war!
I ain’t got nothin’ worth the fightin’ for.

“So long,” ’e sez. “I got ter trade me stock;
    An’ when yeh ’ear I’ve took a soljer’s job
I give yeh leave to say I’ve done me block
    An’ got a flock uv weevils in me knob.”
An’ then, orf-’anded-like, ’e arsts me: “Say,
Wot are they slingin’ soljers fer their pay?

I tells ’im; an’ ’e sez to me, “So long.
    Some day this rabbit trade will git me beat.”
An’ Ginger Mick shoves thro’ the markit throng,
    An’ gits ’is barrer out into the street.
An’ as ’e goes, I ’ears ’is gentle roar:
Rabbee! Wile Rabbee! . . . Blarst the flamin’ war!”

The Moods of Ginger Mick - Contents    |     III. The Call of Stoush

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