Thursday, August 2, 2007

General T. Scully

General T. Scully
Was rather a bully,
He treated his men with disdain,
He’d make them do runs
With their kit and their guns
For he loved to inflict lots of pain.

He’d march without warning
At three in the morning
To the room where the orderlies slept,
And he’d rouse them awake
And he’d cruelly make
Them ensure that the barracks were swept.

The men were not happy
With this General chappie,
And complained that his treatment was rough,
But no-one would dare
Take two steps in the square
And announce that enough was enough.

Then one day there came
A recruit without name
To the barracks the General most hated,
And he got into bed
And he lay down his head
And he waited and waited and waited.

And come three o’clock,
Without barely a knock,
The mad General burst into the room,
And he turned on the light
And announced with delight
Everyone was to pick up a broom.

The squaddies awoke
And though cursing the bloke,
They jumped out of bed with great haste,
But the newcomer stayed
In his bed neatly made,
And watched the old fraud with distaste.

The General surveyed
The dishevelled parade,
And he leered at the privates before him,
But then he stopped dead
As the soldier in bed
Continued to smirk and ignore him.

“Get out of that bed
Or I’ll strike you down dead!”
The General exploded with loathing.
“I’ll strike you with force
Like I do to my horse.
Now get up and put on some clothing!”

“No way, daddy-o,”
Drawled the soldier below,
“You can’t do whatever you like.
You’re a bit of a bully,
O, General T. Scully,
Though I think I will call you ‘Strike’.”

The General’s red eyes
Opened wide with surprise,
And he stared at the soldier nonplussed.
And the rest of the men
Took a vote there and then
That they weren’t going to sweep any dust.

“What’s the meaning of this?”
Snarled the Gen with a hiss,
Observing his troops with dislike.
One man raised his hand,
Saying, “Don’t you understand?
This man’s called a General ‘Strike’.”

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