by Dave Fitzgerald
comes the Drummer Boys' drum
as he rythmically beats out the time.
His monotone tune
keeps the French men in blue
marching t'ward the green and red line.
With each roll and beat
he kept moving his feet
and drove on the column of men.
He saw enemy near
and trembled with fear,
as he would, a young boy of ten.
he continued to tap
and the men cried out "VIVA LA FRANCE!"
Then the eagle afore
fell to the floor
as the British line entered the dance,
And the mud ran with blood
as the musket balls thud
and the French men continued to fall.
The bodies kept tumbling
and the guns kept a rumbling
but the young boy, eyes closed, stood tall.
When he stopped his pacing
his eyes opened, facing
a man in a jacket of red.
He stared back at the eyes
and started to cry
as the man put a hand on his head.
"Son I'll wager you're fretting,
on the thoughts that you're getting,
on account of those tears that you're blinking.
But we no longer eat
French drummer boys' feet
on account of the fact that they're stinking."
Posted on 07/14/2010
Copyright © 2019 Dave Fitzgerald
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Stephan Anstey on 07/14/10 at 06:07 PM|
This has so much to recommend it. Lots of excellent use of a pounding beat.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/14/10 at 06:23 PM|
Well, I have missed your poetry and this was a winner. Strong beat, a story with a mission and a humorous ending, just what I needed. Thank you.
|Posted by Glenn Currier on 09/08/10 at 08:45 PM|
Oh man! You had me soooo hooked on and inspired by this little boy. The imagery was rocking me, and then this finish! So clever, so creative. Thanks, buddy.
|Posted by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh on 09/23/10 at 08:43 PM|
I loved the dark start and the humerous end! And the rhyme of course made the poem. I loved it!
|Posted by Gregory R Schelske on 11/23/10 at 01:32 PM|
Ah, Mr. Fitzgerlad...could I borrow just a drop of your Welsh blood so that I may write like you?