Moulton/Gomi San

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Gomi San
A Poem by Junkyard Ripling

You may talk o' rhymes that blight
When they're quartered out of sight,
An' you're sent to tarpit fights an' moderate it;
But when it comes to laughter
You'll be hanging from the rafter,
An' you'll kick the bloomin' ass of 'im that's got it.
Now in Moulton's murky clime,
Where I dread to spend my time
A-servin' of the cleansing of the chan,
Of all them bobble'd crew
The meanest man I knew
Was our regimental critic, Gomi San.
He was "Damn! Damn! Damn!
You metronomic kick-butt, Gomi San!
Hi! Bickery blather! Ow!
Quick, baleet it! And right now!
You bouncy-nosed old idol, Gomi San."

The avatar 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'alf a' rule-book screed,
For a piece o' twisty sash
An' a hankerin' to bash
Was all the crew equipment 'e could find.
When the stinkin' rhyme-schemes lay
In public threads all through the day,
Where the tunes would make your bloomin' stomach heave,
We shouted "Moulton Fie!"
Till our throats were sick and dry,
Then we whopped 'im 'cause we couldn't make him leave.
It was "Damn! Damn! Damn!
You slacker, where the devil 'ave you been?
You put some judgin' in it
Or I'll sorrow you this minute
If you don't tarpit this poem, Gomi San!"

'E would spot an' carry on
Till the longest day was gone;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' rhyme.
If his songs were in a rut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' out the time to commit another crime.
With 'is music in 'is sack,
'E would skip and then attack,
An' watch us till the Midis made reprise,
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was trite, clear trite, inside
When 'e went to croon the wounded by surprise!
It was "Damn! Damn! Damn!"
With the lyrics kickin' dust-ups on the screen.
When the music sheet ran out,
You could hear the gobsmacked shout,
"Hi! Come enforce the rules, oh Gomi San!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind in fright
Came a ballad where my Brill-tune should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with lust,
An' the man that had me bust
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Milton Roe.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged in where I led,
An' 'e guv me twelve fine stanzas fast and clean:
It was rotten and it stunk,
But of all the tunes, I'd thunk,
I'm gratefullest for one from Milton Roe.
It was "Ho! Ho! Ho!
'Ere's a poet with a gullet and a spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' butt all 'round:
For Gawd's sakes do it faster, Milton Roe!"

'E carried me away
To where my Gomi lay,
An' a new tune come an' enthralled the bugger so.
'E pulled me safe aside,
An' just before 'e cried,
"I 'ope you liked this trope", sez Milton Roe.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where all is song --
Where it's always treble trill and no Defoe;
'E'll be skirtin' round the shoals
Givin' songs to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a tune to kvell from Milton Roe!
Yes, Ho! Ho! Ho!
You bardic artsy poet, Milton Roe!
Though I've kidded you and played you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better band than I am, Milton Roe!