The Moods of Ginger Mick | Page 4

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 thing 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 gave 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!"

III. THE CALL OF STOUSH
Wot price ole Ginger Mick? 'E's done a break -
Gone to the flamin' war to stoush the foe.
Wus it fer glory, or a
woman's sake?
Ar, arst me somethin' easy! I dunno.
'Is Kharki clobber set 'im off a
treat,
That's all I know; 'is motive's got me beat.
Ole Mick 'e's trainin' up in Cairo now;
An' all the cops in Spadger's Lane is sad.
They miss 'is music in the
midnight row
Wot time the pushes mix it good an' glad.
Fer 'e wus one o' them, you
understand,
Wot "soils the soshul life uv this fair land."
A peb wus Mick; a leery bloke wus 'e,
Low down, an' given to the brinnin' cup;
The sort o' chap that coves
like you an' me
Don't mix wiv, 'cos of our strick bringin's-up.
An' 'e wus sich becos
unseein' Fate
Lobbed 'im in life a 'undred years too late.
'E wus a man uv vierlence, wus Mick,
Coarse wiv 'is speech an' in 'is manner low,
Slick wiv 'is 'ands, an'
'andy wiv a brick
When bricks wus needful to defeat a foe.
An' now 'e's gone an'
mizzled to the war,
An' some blokes 'as the nerve to arst "Wot for?"
Wot for? gawstruth! 'E wus no patriot
That sits an' brays advice in days uv strife;
'E never flapped no flags

nor sich like rot;
'E never sung "Gawsave" in all 'is life.
'E wus dispised be them that
make sicg noise:
But now - O strike! - 'e's "one uv our brave boys."
'E's one uv our brave boys, all right, all right.
'Is early trainin' down in Spadgers Lane
Done 'im no 'arm fer this 'ere
orl-in fight:
'Is loss o' culcher is 'is country's gain.
'Im wiv 'is carst-ir'n chiv an'
leery ways -
An' swell tarts 'eavin' 'im sweet words o' praise.
Why did 'e go? 'E 'ad a decent job,
'Is tart an' 'im they could 'a' made it right.
Why does a wild bull fight
to guard the mob?
Why does a bloomin' bull-ant look fer fight?
Why does a rooster
scrap an' flap an' crow?
'E went becos 'e dam well 'ad to go.
'E never spouted no 'igh-soundin' stuff