|
|
|
|
Although few will take credit for these poems,
a certain breveted sub-private Winfrey seems to have his hand
in most
poetry at Camp Warhorse.
Although it has been said that Bergie is the real poet.
How we won the War
The Ode to the Post Children
Cannoneer Prayer
Drivers Lament
The Artillery Diet
How we won the War
Well, they say that Grant won the war,
and that's the way it may seem,
But I'll tell you who won the damn war
It was me and my artillery team
Grant could just open his mouth
and, "charge" he would shout,
But it was me and my team
That had to carry that order out
Then it would be
"Hold at whatever cost"
Which meant we'd get untrained replacements
for all the men and horses we lost
We knew it was bullshit,
But we did everything they said
Now most of the orginal battery
is missing, wounded or dead
We'd work and drill the new cannoneers
and green battery horse teams
until they could "load" and "break section"
even in their dreams
Then some general would get a idea
and out we'd go again
kill another passel of Rebs, be pulled out
The generals never let us win
Well, I was the wheel horse driver
in the right section, gun number 2
and, the horses knew more about fighting a war
than any general ever knew
Gizmo was my off horse
and Gizzley Bear was the near
As artillerist we were more into killing than dying
Truth be, we held our own lives kind of dear
I remember my off horse turned to me and said
"Driver, I 'm so frustrated that I could spit,
this is going to be another useless sacrifice
and, I'll tell you I am damn tired of it"
I got the message, so I told the lead
and the swing drivers to climb down
Me and my horses would do a job of work
and pick them up, back in town
When the rebs formed up a long line
After they came out of the timber
Waiting over to the side, were 24 hoofs,
Pulling a canon and limber
They started to gallop on the left
and, when the got to the right
There weren't any rebs still standing
and,
none that could put up a fight
And, thats how the rebel soldier boys
came to lose their hearts
(and their livers, stomachs, guts and
assorted and sundry parts
I said that me and my team won the war
the truth I wasn't to hide
To be more correct, the horses won the war
I just went along for the ride
When the Geneva Convention wrote the rules of war
and, what you could and couldn't use,
some things were totally prohibited
Even if it meant your side would lose
And down in the section where
germ warfare and mustard gas were forbidden
It was stated very clear "Rule 1"
No pissed off Battery Horses will be ridden!!
Campfire Song for the Post Children
The Sergeant said to my mama
"Mount up with a whip in your hand."
With a "Driver, drive On, "
My Mama was gone
Oh, My Mama is a wheel Driven Man
We were At Tejon with the Howizters
Serving under Major Mann
I wonder if they're heard
That we are serving with the third
Oh, my mama is a wheel driving man
My Daddy is a Cannoneer
One of the finest in the land
But I'll tell you friend
What is the living end
Oh my mama is a wheel driving Man
Note - Since this was about my family it holds a special place with me.
My wife has been riding all of her life and loves being
a arty driver.
My 2 children love riding too. and soon will be arty drivin' as well.
After this poem I knew that we were part of the
unit.
Dan Post
Picket Line Poetry
Cannoneer Prayer
Lord one day I will die, this is something I do know
I live my life so at any time, I'll be ready to go
How I go is your choice, be it musket ball or pox
But please sir don't call me home by falling off the limber box.
Drivers Lament
A tale of my time in the army, I am going to tell,
I was a driver in the Artillery, 3rd US battery L
Up on the lead at the gallop to the inside I fell
St. Peter said, "Come on up driver, your've already
been to hell."
The Artillery Diet
By Bergie Winfrey
The minnie went through my leg,
and I knew it meant a peg,
for my mothers’ only son
I also knew
my duty was through
and my fighting days were done
But, the sergeant said,
with his stripes of red
“Five, no more ammunition can you run,
So get off your ass
up out of the grass
you are know number one.”
To the muzzle I hopped
and the bore I mopped
on that ten pound parrot Gun,
When a round it cooked
and down range I looked,
at my arm headed for the setting sun
I also knew
my duty was through
and my fighting days were done
But the sergeant said
with his stripes of red
“Boy, you’ll miss that ramming fun,”
Then he looked at me
and said, “Number three”
to post at the vent of the gun”
It saddened my heart
as I lost each part,
I mean I lost weight by the ton.
Through my tears
I drove swing with my ears
before the night fall had begun,
I also knew
my duty was through
and my fighting days were done
I had a career change of sorts,
I make my living in sports.
I’m second base. The sergeant? Second Baseman!
|
|
