Sunday, 27 March 2011


Oea! Oea! you squeaked, so I took you with me,
Walked you on a lead through the soukh.
You dogged after me –
Pigged I should say –hoovering on the trot.
Your Tripoli was turnips and cabbages,
Nuts of the best, carrots and cucumbers,
Pumpkins and pears. Your little snout
Went in and out. Your gushy grunts I decoded
Into a gimme, gimme, that came as no surprise.
My Tripoli I kept from you
While yet another Focke whistled by.
Blessed Erwin, had he been there,
Or our friend Saint Adulf,
Might have whistled some funking Wagner
Beneath the lamp-posts.
They might have taught the jolly jerboas to sing
Lili Marlene and given the game away.
I shot sly glances at the bullet-holes
Not to disturb the pretty pigling in you
That was sniffing blindly and trusting to provender.
Oea! Oea!, you squeaked,
While in my Tripoli
We were never more than an energetic spit
From a scrap-happy desert-rat.

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