War Paint

Tags

Australian poet, Australian SAS, poem, poetry, SAS, SAS accused of murder, SAS Regiment, taliban

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭

The SAS have fired upon the foe?
From now on they will only fire paint balls!
It’s rumoured by observers, don’t you know —
The SAS have fired upon the foe!
We’ll paint the Taliban from head to toe!
We may unearth another Picasso!
The SAS have fired upon the foe?
From now on they will only fire paint balls!

— D.N. O’Brien

Small War Couplets

Tags

Afghanistan war, Australian poet, Futile wars, Kalashnikov AK-47, poem, poetry, Rhyming couplets, taliban, Unwinnable wars

Small War Couplets

When you can’t tell the foe from your friend,
History tells us – such wars never end.

But we’re winning – we’ll banish the foe!
If you do, he’ll return when you go.

We have rockets and choppers and drones!
But the Taliban have their smart phones.

His insurgency, with science, we’ll stifle.
He’ll just hide in the hills with his rifle.

But I’m telling you – we have the gear!
And your fighters – are they without fear?

But we’re winning in Afghanistan!
No you’re not – though you did get a tan.

What! A tribesman! Should I fear a peasant?
Being shot from long range isn’t pleasant.

A Kalashnikov! – that’s an old gun!
It will still put a hole in you son.

Irish Dancing Taliban

Tags

Afghan, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Irish dancing, poem, poetry, taliban

Unless you have been involved with Irish Dancing
competitions you may not understand this……..

You know, I’m really quite a fan
Of Irish dancing Taliban.
Under a blazing desert sun
These turbaned chaps are having fun.
You’ll see them dancing on the road
(And here and there a few explode)
And as the craze o’er deserts rages
Everywhere rise up the stages –
Competitions are the go
For martyrs who are in the know.
The judges all sit in a row
Completely covered head to toe,
With blindfolds, so that they can’t see
A flash of ankle, calf or knee.

And first up is the soft shoe round:
Like tents with feet they leap and bound,
With one two threes and rocks and twirls.
(They’re all pretending to be girls)
They’re dancing reels or strange mazurkas,
(Who can tell beneath those burkas?)
And who will win is never clear
With judges judging just by ear,
But when the hard shoe dance is done
With tapping like a machine gun;
The battering of Afghan feet,
Just like that old ballistic beat,
Then it’s not hard to pick the best
And sort the camels from the rest:
With that percussive rattling sound
The judges really nail that round.