Darla Anne

Darla Anne in the wet lips wept
for the little lords sleeping in fits of
unsatisfied dreaming below deck
by each bed their rubber boots and mags
jugs of meals ready to eat
and for each man
a pack of filterless fags,

They said the Japanese war machine
was racked on the beachhead bad
the waves too deep
tricky and treacherous for the little lads
who locked and loaded
jumped into the thrashing current
and drowned in olive drab,

Darla Anne in last night's respite cried the
last of those sea salt tears she had
covered her heaving chest in heavy armor
and headed for the hatch
she would cry no more for those lost little lords
the brave young handsome lads
she stomped in too big boots two big footprints
hooting REVENGE down the warpath
now, Darla Anne was comin'
and she was mad.

TA