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 poetIf this poem makes you think I’m misogynistic, please reserve your judgement until you’ve read We Band of Sisters

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Brian Hartigan

Managing Editor Contact Publishing Pty Ltd PO Box 3091 Minnamurra NSW 2533 AUSTRALIA

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