MONITOR MADNESS
The military has long had mascots, eagles, bulls and sheep
But when parades are over, someone has to sweep
The droppings will enrich the soil, of the gardens around the base
If the job is done properly, it hardly leaves a trace
Our squadron trained a monitor, while up in the “top end”
He could wander freely and became to be our friend
He resided in our laundry, amongst the socks and jocks
Banishing all the rodents, that infested the living-in blocks
The duty cook would feed him, the choicest cuts of meat
As we came off duty, he was always there to greet
When he went out on patrol, around the units’ grounds
He knew too well, where was safe and what was out of bounds
If he wasn’t chasing vermin, he sun baked on a rock
And those who didn’t see him, were bound to get a shock
He had both grace and beauty, not sure of his actual sex
A cousin of the dinosaurs that’s why we called him Rex
He only had one nemesis, the time that he was there
A Harridan known as Madam WRAAF, who could give all a good scare
A large vexatious woman, certainly no fragile fleur
It was a wonder they didn’t name, a cyclone after her
It was said, if she was sent to hell, there would be little doubt
She wouldn’t spend a day down there, before the devil threw her out
A male hater from way back and should any man belie her
It wasn’t very long before, he’d be talking two octaves higher
Madame WRAAF, was no light weight and it was not hard to see
She must have greased a palm or two, to pass her PFT
Easily enraged, to make an attack,
She was known throughout the base, as “Old Miss Razor Back”
Tuesday was “Panic Morn”, when the rooms were always inspected
In the eyes of Madam WRAAF, perfection was expected
Floors and shoes polished, to a shining gleam
They all pitched in together and worked just like a team
“Mam” could tell the difference, of dust in all its’ stages
Upswept dust, downswept dust and dust that had been lying there for ages
For there was simple fact, the cause of so much sorrow
If they didn’t get it right the first time, they’d do it all again tomorrow
As Rex was out wandering, on that fateful day
He committed an indiscretion, for which he’d dearly pay
The WRAAFry door was open, so he took a peek inside
Not realising fate, would hurt more than his pride
He’d only reached the ablutions, when sky seemed to turn black
He realised to his peril, he was on the wrong track
Madam WRAAF arrived, with the duty WRAAF in tow
So, he hid in an empty cubicle, there was nowhere else to go
Madam WRAAF made a dash, to answer nature’s call
So he rolled himself into, a tight and compact ball
To be more inconspicuous, he hid behind the bowl
If he was discovered, he’d pay an awful toll
She just seemed to sit there and he dared not to take a look
Poor Rex began to wonder, if she had a book
He tried to figure out a reason, but couldn’t think of any
Why women spend so bloody long, just to spend a penny
Rex decided, her time was up and gave her a gentle nudge
It seemed to have no effect, for the old girl didn’t budge
He rose up on his hind legs and gave her a mighty shove
It was an act of desperation and certainly not one of love
Mam let out a fearful wail, little else could she do.
It sounded like the sirens, heard in nineteen forty two
They both fell off the toilet seat, a mass of arms and legs
“What the hell is going on?” Was the question that now begs
They slid down the hallway, on the polished floor
Right past the trunk room, and through the open verandah door
The duty WRAAF saw the funny side and had to use a tissue
Thinking “That’s why they don’t make bloomers, part of service issue”.
Mam took off like a rocket, without a lot of ease
For it’s very hard to sprint, with your knickers round your knees
She was yelling incoherently, with words that made no sense
But it all ended abruptly, when she crashed into the perimeter fence
When news of this incident, spread by word of mouth
The C.O. did the right thing and had her posted off down south
They say there is a madness, when November comes round
It’s called “Going Tropo”, when your behaviour isn’t sound
By Tomas ‘Paddy’ Hamilton
1 July 2021
Plea from the poet: If this poem makes you think I’m misogynistic, please reserve your judgement until you’ve read We Band of Sisters
.
.
.
.
