by Cpl. Robert L. Cook
Jan. 42~Sept. 45
Oh dear, Oh dear!
Have I forgot
To glorify
That sacred pot
I wore upon
My hollow head?
I've wrote about
And the lot.
How could I
E'er forget
To praise
That rugged
'Ol iron pot?
Have you ever had
Shrapnel
Ricocheting
Off your head?
I know that
You were happy
You didn't
Turn up dead.
And when you needed
Something
From which you
Could shave,
That rusty lookin' object,
Was your ace of spades.
It was good
For washin' skivvies,
Or for warmin'
Rations "C."
And you could dig
A foxhole,
As deep as
It need be.
It was hot
As bloody blazes
A ploddin'
On patrol.
It was even hotter
Dodging bullets
In a hole.
No matter what
A pain it was
To wear upon
My head,
If I'd not
Worn it
I'd probably
Be dead.
So when I turned
It in that day,
Along with other junk,
I gave to it
A kindly pat,
As upon a box
It sat,
And said,
"So long old friend,
I'm glad we are
At journey's end!"
* * *
About the author: Robert Cook served with Reg.
& Tarawa, during a 33-month overseas tour.
