I'll start


Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries
These, in the day when heaven was falling,

The hour when earth's foundations fled,

Followed their mercenary calling,

And took their wages, and are dead.
Their shoulders held the sky suspended;

They stood, and earth's foundations stay;

What God abandoned, these defended,

And saved the sum of things for pay.


A.E. Housman

Operating Operators Operate Operationally,
While Operating the Operators Operate,
Operation Operating with Operational Operators.

Maybe not poetry, but I like it

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

"We stole the eagle from the Air Force, the anchor from the Navy, and the rope from the Army.

On the seventh day when god rested we overran his perimeter and we've been running the whole show ever since."

>>8402982

It's "the Globe from the Army"

Oh, they've got no time for glory in the Infantry.
Oh, they've got no use for praises loudly sung.
But in every soldier's heart in all the Infantry
Shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young.

(Shines the name, Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry.
Lives the story of Private Rodger Young.)

Caught in ambush lay a company of riflemen
Just grenades against machine guns in the gloom.
Caught in ambush till this one of twenty riflemen
Volunteered, volunteered to meet his doom.

Volunteered, Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
In the everlasting annals of the Infantry
Glows the last deed of Private Rodger Young.

(It was he who drew the fire of the enemy
That a company of men might live to fight.
And before the deadly fire of the enemy
Stood the man, stood the man we hail tonight.)

On the island of New Georgia in the Solomons
Stands a simple wooden cross alone to tell.
That beneath the silent coral of the Solomons
Sleeps a man, sleeps a man remembered well.

Sleeps a man, Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
In the everlasting spirit of the Infantry
Breathes the spirit of Private Rodger Young.

No, they've got no time for glory in the Infantry.
No, they've got no use for praises loudly sung.
But in every soldier's heart in all the Infantry
Shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young.

Shines the name, Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry
Lives the story of Private Rodger Young.

>>8402998
that was pretty fucking awesome.

>>8402982
Wait, why is the Army the sole proprietor of rope? You mean you stole the globe from the Army (not like you actually did, but that's what you mean).

[Chorus]
Gloooorious! Victoooorious!
One keg of beer for the four of us!
Glory be to God that there are no more of us
Cuz one of us could drink it all alone!
Damn near!
Pass the Beer!
To the Rear!
Of the Squaaadron
[/Chorus]

Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Corps
Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Corps
Cuz they're all on foreign shores
Makin' mothers outta whores
There are no fighter pilots in the Corps

[Chorus]

Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Navy
Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Navy
Cuz they're all on ships and boats
Havin' sex with sheeps and goats
There are no fighter pilots in the Navy

[Chorus]

Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Army
Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Army
Cuz they're all a bunch of queer
Sanitation engineers
There are no fighter pilots in the Army

[Chorus]

Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Guard
Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Guard
Cuz they're all a bunch of fags
Smokin' marijuana bags
There are no fighter pilots in the Guard

[Chorus]

Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Air Force
Oh there are no fighter pilots in the Air Force
Due to recent budget cuts
We're all drivin' "trucks"
There are no fighter pilots in the Air Force

[Chorus]

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

In before kids complain the Cavalry took it from Irish fishing men.

The soldier stood and faced God,Which must always come to pass,He hoped his shoes were shining,Just as brightly as his brass.
"Step forward now, you soldier,How shall I deal with you?Have you always turned the other cheek?To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders andsaid, "No, Lord, I guess I ain't,Because those of us who carry guns,Can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,And at times my talk was tough,And sometimes I've been violent,Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a pennyThat wasn't mine to keep...Though I worked a lot of overtimeWhen the bills got just too steep,
And I never passed a cry for help,Though at times I shook with fear,And sometimes, God forgive me,I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a placeAmong the people here,They never wanted me around,Except to calm their fears.
If you've a place for me here, Lord,It needn't be so grand,I never expected or had too much,But if you don't, I'll understand."

There was a silence all around the throne,Where the saints had often trod,As the soldier waited quietly,For the judgment of his God.
"Step forward now, you soldier,You've borne your burdens well,Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,You've done your time in Hell."

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

>>8403149
FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUU- you beat me to the punch.

here's my other favorite peom

I HAVE a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death 5
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still. 10
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep 15
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death 20
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

It's the Soldier, not the reporter who has given us
Freedom of the Press.

It's the Soldier, not the poet, who has given us
Freedom of Speech.

It's the Soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the Freedom to Demonstrate.

It's the Soldier, not the lawyer, who has given us the Right to a Fair Trial.

It's the Soldier who salutes the flag, serves under the flag and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who gives the protestor the right to burn the flag.

bump

>When he gets to heaven
>to St. Peter he will tell,

>"Another soldier reporting for duty, sir!
>I've served my time in Hell."

Goddamn was that the best game intro I've ever known of. A minute or so later you're on the beach getting shot at by Germans.
So fucking awesome...

Arithmetic on the Frontier

A GREAT and glorious thing it is
To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
Ere reckoned fit to face the foe -
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: " All flesh is grass."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent
On making brain and body meeter
For all the murderous intent
Comprised in "villainous saltpetre".
And after?- Ask the Yusufzaies
What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station-
A canter down some dark defile
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail.
The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote
No formulae the text-books know,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar's downward blow.
Strike hard who cares - shoot straight who can
The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp
Will pay for all the school expenses
Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
But, being blessed with perfect sight,
Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem.
The troopships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The "captives of our bow and spear"
Are cheap, alas! as we are dear.

"A soldier's prayer" from the US Civil War

"I asked God for strength, that I might achieve,
..."I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.
"I asked for health, that I might do greater things,
"I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.
"I asked for riches, that I might be happy,
"I was given poverty, that I might be wise.
"I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men,
"I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.
"I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life,
"I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.
"I got nothing I asked for --
"but everything I had hoped for.
"Almost, inspite of myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
"I am, among all men, most richly blessed."

>>8403227
HAHAHAHAHA OH WOW. Is this what you really believe?

I'm mad and you should be too. Fucking Dems...

>>>/b/313000928

>>8403526
yea

>>8403149
This is amazing.

bump

Quickly! Request this thread to be archived!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=De8a32wH6Wc&NR=1

Holger Danskes Mærke, B.S. Ingemann 1837

Lyrics:
I alle de riger og lande,
hvorhen jeg i verden fo'r,
jeg fægted med åben pande
for, hvad jeg for alvor tror.

En ørn var mit hjelmemærke,
på brynjen stod korsets tegn,
på skjold bar jeg løverne stærke
i hjerternes milde hegn.

Når mænd jeg kasted min handske,
opslog jeg min ridderhjelm,
de så, jeg var Holger Danske
og ingen formummet skælm.

Vil dansken i verden fægte,
men dølger åsyn og navn,
jeg ved, hans ånd er ej ægte,
jeg tager ham ej i favn.


Translation:
In all the kingdoms and countries,
whereto I came in the world.
I fought with open brow
for, what I truly believe.

An eagle was my helmets' crest,
my armour bore the sign of the cross,
upon shield I bore lions strong
in the mild embrace of hearts

When men I threw my glove,
upraised my knightly helmet,
they saw, I was Holger the Dane
And no deceitful scoundrel.

Would the Dane fight in the world,
though shroud his visage and name,
I know his spirit is not true;
embrace him I will not.

Probably wasted on you plebs.

I wrote some haikus about WWI one time...I don't remember what I did with them, though...

Ι will never consider life more important than freedom
Nor will I ever abandon our Leaders, dead or alive
But I will also bury all our allies who fell in battle
And after we conquer the barbarians I will not destroy the cities which fought for Hellas
Those however who sided with the barbarians I will make them pay tax to Pythius Apollo
Of the temples that were destroyed, I will not rebuild even one but I will let them remain for the new generations as memories of the sacrilege of the barbarians

Hellenic oath at the battle of Plataea 479 BC

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

There is no good or bad in war.
There is no just or unjust in war.
There is no law and no lawlessness in war.

In war, there is only war.
It is something that transcends our social norms and standards.
War is our ultimate form, where all our achievements in all fields of science come into beeing and unleash their most powerful forces.

War is a display of humanities progress.

War is humanity at it's best.
We bring our best of everything we have to take down, dominate, kill and oppress our opponents.
We breed our creativity into our weapons, our machines, our tactics and our people.
We have fought for everything, from land to love to FUCKING SOCCER MATCHES!
We love war.
Man will grow tired of sports, art, music, dance, and sex before he gets bored of war.
Fear us o' great and distant stars, o' nameless alien life!
Fear us above all else,
FOR WE ARE THE MASTERS OF WAR!!!

You'll take my life but I'll take yours too, you'll fire your musket but I'll run you through
So when you're waiting for the next attack, you'd better stand there's no turning back
The bugle sounds and the charge begins, but on this battlefield no one wins
The smell of acrid smoke and horses breath, as I plunge on into certain death
The horse he sweats with fear we break to run, the mighty roar of the Russian guns
And as we race toward the human wall, the screams of pain as my comrades fall
We hurdle bodies that lay on the ground, and the Russians fire another round
We get so near yet so far away, we won't live to fight another day

We get so close near enough to fight, when a Russian gets me in his sights
He pulls the trigger and I feel the blow, a burst of rounds take my horse below
And as I lay there gazing at the sky, my body's numb and my throat is dry
And as I lay forgotten and alone, without a tear I draw my parting groan

>>8403374

Witness the sad consequences of an army and a people who cannot shoot worth a hill of fucking beans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G9sVcRxopJU

Wir sind des Geyer’s schwarzer Haufen - Heyja Heyjo
Und woll’n mit Pfaff’ und Adel raufen - Heyja Heyjo

Ref.: Spieß voran
Drauf und dran
Setzt auf’s Klosterdach den roten Hahn.

Als Adam grub und Eva spann - Kyrieleis!
Wo war denn da der Edelmann? Kyrieleis!

Uns führt der Florian Geyer an - Heyja Heyjo!
Den Bundschuh führt er in der Fahn' - Heyja Heyjo!

Jetzt geht's auf Schloß, Abtei und Stift - Heyja Heyjo!
Bei uns gibt's nur die Heil'ge Schrift - Heyja Heyjo!

Bei Weinsberg setzt' es Brand und Stank - Heyja Heyjo!
Gar mancher über die Klinge sprang - Heyja Heyjo!

Des Edelmannes Töchterlein - Kyrieleis!
Wir schicktens in die Höll' hinein - Kyrieleis!

Geschlagen ziehen wir nach Haus - Heyja Heyjo!
Unsre Enkel fechten's besser aus - Heyja Heyjo!

Lay me down in the cold cold ground
Where before many more have gone

When they come I will stand my ground
Stand my ground I'll not be afraid

Thoughts of home take away my fear
Sweat and blood hide my veil of tears

Once a year say a prayer for me
Close your eyes and remember me

Never more shall I see the sun
For I fell to a Germans gun

Lay me down in the cold cold ground
Where before many more have gone

>>8405710
Love that poem. Going to give some more Wilfred Owen here too:

Anthem for Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Sturmangriff: August Stramm


Aus allen Winkeln gellen Fürchte Wollen

Kreisch

Peitscht

Das Leben

Vor

Sich

Her

Den keuchen Tod

Die Himmel fetzen.
Blinde schlächtert wildum das Entsetzen.

Õsz van és peregnek
a sárgult levelek,
Meghalt a földön az
emberi szeretet.
Bánatos könnyekkel
zokog az õszi szél,
Szívem már új tavaszt nem
vár és nem remél.

Hiába sírok és
hiába szenvedek,
Szívtelen rosszak és
kapzsik az emberek...
Meghalt a szeretet!
Vége a világnak,
vége a reménynek

Városok pusztulnak,
srapnelek zenélnek.
Emberek vérétõl
piros a tarka rét.
Halottak fekszenek az
úton szerteszét.

Még egyszer elmondom
csendben az imámat:
"Uram, az emberek
gyarlók és hibáznak..."
Vége a világnak!

He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright.
He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight.
He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar.
You ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus:
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die.
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die.
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die.
He ain't gonna jump no more.

"Is everybody happy?" cried the sergeant looking up.
Our hero feebly answered, "Yes", and then they stood him up.
He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock.
He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop.
The silk from his reserve spilled out and wrapped around his legs.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

The risers swung around his neck, connectors cracked his dome.
Suspension lines were tied in knots around his skinny bones.
The canopy became his shroud, he hurtled to the ground.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

The days he lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind.
He thought about the girl back home, the one he left behind.
He thought about the medicos and wondered what they'd find.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

The ambulance was on the spot, the jeeps were running wild.
The medics jumped and screamed with glee, rolled up their sleeves and smiled.
For it had been a week or more since last a 'chute had failed.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

He hit the ground, the sound was "Splat," his blood went spurting high.
His comrades they were heard to say, "A helluva way to die."
He lay there rolling 'round in the welter of his gore.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

There was blood upon the risers, there were brains upon the 'chute.
Intestines were a-dangling from his paratrooper suit.
He was a mess, they picked him up and poured him from his boots.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Up to mighty London came
An Irish lad one day,
All the streets were paved with gold,
So everyone was gay!
Singing songs of Piccadilly,
Strand, and Leicester Square,
'Til Paddy got excited and
He shouted to them there:

It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square!
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.

Paddy wrote a letter
To his Irish Molly O',
Saying, "Should you not receive it,
Write and let me know!
If I make mistakes in "spelling",
Molly dear", said he,
"Remember it's the pen, that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me".

It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square,
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.

Molly wrote a neat reply
To Irish Paddy O',
Saying, "Mike Maloney wants
To marry me, and so
Leave the Strand and Piccadilly,
Or you'll be to blame,
For love has fairly drove me silly,
Hoping you're the same!"

It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square,
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.

That's the wrong way to tickle Mary,
That's the wrong way to kiss!
Don't you know that over here, lad,
They like it best like this!
Hooray pour le Francais!
Farewell, Angleterre!
We didn't know the way to tickle Mary,
But we learned how, over there!