poems of General George S Patton Jnr PoemHunter.com: Poems - Quotes - Poetry Peace -- November 11, 1918 Poem by General George S Patton Jnr - Poem Hunter A Soldier's Prayer - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr God of our Father, who by land and sea has ever Led us on to victory, please continue your inspiring Guidance in this greatest of our conflicts. Strengthen my soul so that the weakening instinct of Self preservation, which besets all of us in battle, Shall not blind me to my duty to my own manhood, to the Glory of my calling, and to my responsibility to my Fellow soldiers. Grant to our Armed Forces that disciplined valor and Mutual confidence which insures success in war. Let me not mourn for the men who have died fighting, But rather let me be glad that such heroes have lived. If it be my lot to die, let me do so with courage and honor In a manner which will bring the greatest harm to the Enemy, and please, oh Lord, protect and guide those I Shall leave behind. Give us victory, Lord. General George S Patton Jnr A Soldier's Burial - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr Not midst the chanting of the Requiem Hymn, Nor with the solemn ritual of prayer, Neath misty shadows from the oriel glass, And dreamy perfume of the incensed air Was he interred; But in the subtle stillness after fight, And the half light between the night and the day, We dragged his body all besmeared with mud, And dropped it, clod-like, back into the clay. Yet who shall say that he was not content, Or missed the prayers, or drone of chanting choir, He who had heard all day the Battle Hymn Sung on all sides by a thousand throats of fire. What painted glass can lovelier shadows cast Than those the evening skies shall ever shed, While, mingled with their light, Red Battle's Sun Completes in magic colors o'er our dead The flag for which they died. General George S Patton Jnr Absolute War - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr Now in war we are confronted with conditions which are strange. If we accept them we will never win. Since by being realistic, as in mundane combats fistic, We will get a bloody nose and that's a sin. To avoid such fell disaster, the result of fighting faster, We resort to fighting carefully and slow. We fill up terrestrial spaces with secure expensive bases To keep our tax rate high and death rate low. But with sadness and with sorrow we discover to our horror That while we build, the enemy gets set. So despite our fine intentions to produce extensive pensions We haven't licked the dirty bastard yet. For in war just as in loving, you must always keep on shoving Or you'll never get your just reward. For if you are dilatory in the search for lust and glory You are up shit creek and that's the truth, Oh! Lord. So let us do real fighting, boring in and gouging, biting. Let's take a chance now that we have the ball. Let's forget those fine firm bases in the dreary shell raked spaces. Let's shoot the works and win! Yes, win it all! General George S Patton Jnr Fear - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr I am that dreadful, blighting thing, Like rat holes to the flood. Like rust that gnaws the faultless blade, Like microbes to the blood. I know no mercy and no truth, The young I blight, the old I slay. Regret stalks darkly in my wake, And ignominy dogs my way. Sometimes, in virtuous garb I rove, With facile talk of easier way; Seducing where I dare not rape, Young manhood, from it's honor's sway. Again, in awesome guise I rush, Stupendous, through the ranks of war, Turning to water, with my gaze, Hearts that, before, no foe could awe. The maiden who has strayed from right, To me must pay the mead of shame. The patriot who betrays his trust, To me must owe his tarnished name. I spare no class, nor cult, nor creed, My course is endless through the year. I bow all heads and break all hearts, All owe me homage -- I am FEAR. General George S Patton Jnr Peace -- November 11, 1918 - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr I stood in the flag-decked cheering crowd Where all but I were gay, And gazing on their extesy, My heart shrank in dismay. For theirs was the joy of the 'little folk' The cruel glee of the weak, Who, banded together, have slain the strong Which none alone dared seek. The Bosch we know was a hideous beast Beyond our era's ban, But soldiers still must honor the Hun As a mighty fighting man. The vice he had was strong and real Of virtue he had none, Yet he fought the world remorselessly And very nearly won… And looking forward I could see Like a festering sewer; Full of the fecal Pacifists Which peace makes us endure…. None of the hold and blatant sin The disregard of pain, The glorious deeds of sacrefice which follow in wars train. Instead of these the little lives Will blossom as before, Pale bloom of creatures all too weak To hear the light of war. While we whose spirits wider range Can grasp the joys of strife, Will moulder in the virtuous vice Of futile peaceful life. We can but hope that e're we drown 'Neath treacle floods of grace, The tuneless horns of mighty, Mars Once more shall rouse the Race When such times come, Oh! God of War Grant that we pass midst strife, Knowing once more the whitehot joy Of taking human life. Then pass in peace, blood-glutted Bosch And when we too shall fall, We'll clasp in yours our gory hands In High Valhallas' Hall. General George S Patton Jnr Dead Pals - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr Dickey, we've trained and fit and died, Yes, drilled and drunk and bled, And shared our chuck and our bunks in life. Why part us now we're dead? Would I rot so nice away from you, Who has been my pal for a year? Will Gabriel's trumpet waken me, If you ain't there to hear? Will a parcel of bones in a wooden box Remind my Ma of me? Or isn't it better for her to think Of the kid I used to be? It's true some preacher will get much class A tellin' what guys we've been, So, the fact that we're not sleeping with pals, Won't cut no ice for him. They'll yell, 'Hurrah!' And every spring they'll decorate our tomb, But we'll be absent at the spot We sought, and found, our doom. The flags and flowers won't bother us, Our free souls will be far -- Holdin' the line in sunny France Where we died to win the war. Fact is, we need no flowers and flags For each peasant will tell his son, 'Them graves on the hill is the graves of Yanks, Who died to lick the Hun.' And instead of comin' every spring To squeeze a languid tear, A friendly people's loving care Will guard us all the year. General George S Patton Jnr Bill - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr Bill, he kept racin' the motor, For fear that the damned thing would die. While I fiddled 'round with the breech block And wished for a piece of your pie. It's funny the way it affects you, When you're waitin' for the signal to go. There's none of the high moral feeling About which the newspapers blow. For myself, I always is hungry, While Bill thought his spark plugs was foul. Some guys talks o' sprees they has been on, And one kid, what's croaked, thought of school. At last, I seen Number One signal; I beat on the back o' Bill's neck. He slipped her the juice and she started, And Bill he ain't never come back. The first news we had of the Boches Was shot splinters, right in the eye. I cussed twice as loud as the Colonel, And forgot all about the old pie. A Boche he runs out with a tank gun; I gave him H.E. in the guts. You ought to have seen him pop open! They sure was well fed, was them sluts. We wiped out two nests with case shot And was just gettin' into a third, When we plunked in a hole full of water. That God-damned Bill sure was a bird. He hollers, 'Frank, you're married; If only one gets out, it's you.' And he rammed me up out of the turret... I guess that's about all I knew. A stinkin' whizz-bang beaned me, Or I might of rescued Bill, But it's too late now. He's sleepin' By our tank, on that God-damned hill. They gave him a Medal of Honor, For savin' me for you, So if it's a boy we'll name it Bill, It's the least and the most we can do. General George S Patton Jnr The Fly - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr O, sweet slight friend Who frolics free O'er cactus plain Or sandy lee, No one can lonely Long remain While hearkening to Thy blithe refrain When meal time comes Thy friendly face Is everywhere about The place. You taste the coffee Eat oatmeal And from the cakes the Syrup steal. And though we know that You have been On the hot turds In some latrine, And while you sipped The dainties there You gathered germs in Your long hair, To spread them Wantonly upon Each dainty meat Or new baked bun. Still, we can't blame you For we know That all we eat To shit will go. And after meals When we would feign Seek Morpheus' arms From labor pain, You gently break Our sweet repose By deftly fucking In our nose. Our ears and mouths You then explore And leave there Pus from some old sore. Then when at night You needs must sleep Onto our tented Roofs you creep. And when the Witching Hour has come Your dainty farts Pervade the gloom, While like the dews From heaven fall Your tiny turds So round and small. And if in battle We should die Around us first Would swarm the fly. You'd do your best To ease the pain And swarm around Each oozing vein. Yes, in memoria to A friend A hundred thousand Eggs you'd lend. And as through maggots Sent by you Our gruesome corpse More gruesome grew. You'd swarm in myriads Feasting high You'd hum our dirge You goddamned fly! General George S Patton Jnr The Moon And The Dead - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr The Moon And The Dead Poem by General George S Patton Jnr - Poem Hunter The road of the battle languished, The hate from the guns was still, While the moon rose up from a smoke cloud, And looked at the dead on the hill. Pale was her face with anguish, Wet were her eyes with tears, As she gazed on the twisted corpses, Cut off in their earliest years. Some were bit by the bullet, Some were kissed by the steel, Some were crushed by the cannon, But all were still, how still! The smoke wreaths hung in the hollows, The blood stink rose in the air; And the moon looked down in pity, At the poor dead lying there. Light of their childhood's wonder, Moon of their puppy love, Goal of their first ambition, She watched them from above. Yet not with regret she mourned them, Fair slain on the field of strife, Fools only lament the hero, Who gives for faith his life. She sighed for the lives extinguished, She wept for the loves that grieve, But she glowed with pride on seeing, That manhood still doth live. The moon sailed on contented, Above the heaps of slain, For she saw that manhood liveth, And honor breathes again. General George S Patton Jnr Through A Glass Darkly, - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr Perhaps I stabbed our Savior In His sacred helpless side. Yet I've called His name in blessing When in after times I died. Through the travail of the ages Midst the pomp and toil of war Have I fought and strove and perished Countless times upon this star. I have sinned and I have suffered Played the hero and the knave Fought for belly, shame or country And for each have found a grave. So as through a glass and darkly The age long strife I see Where I fought in many guises, Many names - but always me. So forever in the future Shall I battle as of yore, Dying to be born a fighter But to die again once more. General George S Patton Jnr To Our First Dead - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr They died for France like countless thousands more Who, in this war, have faltered not to go At duty's bidding, even unto death. And yet, no deaths which history records, Were fought with greater consequence than theirs. A nation shuddered as their spirits passed; And unborn babies trembled in the womb, In sympathetic anguish at their fate. Far from their homes and in ungainful strife They gave their all, in that they gave their life; While their young blood, shed in this distant land, Shall be more potent than the dragon's teeth To raise up soldiers to avenge their fall. Men talked of sacrifice, but there was none; Death found them unafraid and free to come Before their God. In righteous battle slain A joyous privilege theirs; the first to go In that their going doomed to certain wrath A thousand foemen, for each drop they gave Of sacramental crimson, to the cause. And so their youthful forms all dank and stiff, All stained with tramplings in unlovely mud, We laid to rest beneath the soil of France So often honored with the hero slain; Yet never greatlier so than on this day, When we interred our first dead in her heart. There let them rest, wrapped in her verdant arms, Their task well done. Now, from the smoke veiled sky, They watch our khaki legions pass to certain victory, Because of them who showed us how to die. General George S Patton Jnr Valor - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr When all hearts are opened, And all the secrets known, When guile and lies are banished, And subterfuge is gone. When God rolls up the curtain, And hidden truths appear, When the ghastly light of Judgement Day, Brings past and present near... Then shall we know what once we knew, Before wealth dimmed our sight, That of all sins, the blackest is The pride which will not fight. The meek and pious have a place, And necessary are, But valor pales their puny rays, As does the sun a star. What race of men since time began, Has ever yet remained, Who trusted not it's own right hand, Or from brave deeds refrained? Yet spite the fact for ages known, And by all lands displayed, We still have those who prate of peace, And say that war is dead. Yes vandals rise who seek to snatch The laurels from the brave, And dare defame heroic dead, Now filling hero graves. They speak of those who love, Like Christ's, exceeds the lust of life And murderers slain to no avail, A useless sacrifice. With infamy without a name, They mock our fighting youth, And dare decry great hearts who die, Battling for right and truth. Woe to the land which, heeding them, Lets avarice gain the day, And trusting gold it's right to hold, Lets manly might decay. Let us, while willing yet for peace, Still keep our valor high, So when our time of battle comes, We shall not fear to die. Make love of life and ease be less, Make love of country more. So shall our patriotism be More than an empty roar. For death is nothing, comfort less, Valor is all in all; Base nations who depart from it, Shall sure and justly fall. General George S Patton Jnr Wigglers - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr You can't remember, dearest For your memory fades too fast, The beginning of our loving In the warm and foggy past. When vapor from the tepid sea Hung ever in the air, And rivulets of pinkish mud Went trickling past us there. No, you can't remember even Of the later lukewarm time When you and I were wigglers, Wiggling in the pale gray slime. When our mouths were all our reason And our bellies all our soul, When we bred and died and rotted, By the billion on the shoal. Yet for ever and forever, As the cooling waters flow Past the green of long dead coal fields Past the continents of snow. Yes, forever and as truly As the waters changeless are, Have I fought for, sought and found thee As tonight beneath the star. Ever fearing, ever hoping Ever winning thee at last, But to lose thee to regain thee, In the present from the past. General George S Patton Jnr Mercenary's Song (Ad 1600) - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr I am no callow Christian, No pus-paunched prelate, I, I hope not for salvation, Nor fear the day, I'll die In wantonness of appetite, In women, wine and war, In fire and blood and rapine In these my pleasures are. I love the smell of horse dung, The sight of corpse-strewn mud, The sound of steel on armour The feel of clotting blood. The women I have ravished, The infants I have slain, The priests and nuns l've roasted, They haunt me not again. Priests talk of soul's salvation, And shining lights afar, But give me a harlot's laughter And the battle flash of war. Priests talk of soul's damnation The white hot pits of hell; I fear more wounds that fester And gape and rot and smell Then here's to blood and blasphemy! And here's to whores and drink! In life you know you're living In death we only stink. General George S Patton Jnr Marching In Mexico - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr The column winds on snake-like, Through blistering, treeless spaces; The hovering gray-black dust clouds Tint in ghoulish shades our faces. The sweat of muddied bubbles, Trickles down the horses rumps; The saddles creak, the gunboots chafe, The swinging holster bumps. At last the halt is sounded. The outpost trots away; The lines of tattered pup-tents rise, We've marched another day. The rolling horses raise more dust, While from the copper skies Like vultures, stopping on the slain, Come multitudes of flies. The irate cooks their rites perform Like pixies 'round the blaze, The smoking grease wood stings our eyes, Sun-scorched for countless days. The sun dips past the western ridge, The thin dry air grows cold, We shiver through the freezing night, In one thin blanket rolled. The night wind stirs the cactus, And shifts the sand o'er all, The horses squeal, the sentries curse, The lean coyotes call. General George S Patton Jnr God Of Battles - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr From pride and foolish confidence, From every waking creed, From the dread fear of fearing, Protect us, Lord, and lead. Great God, who, through the ages, Has braced the bloodstained hand, As Saturn, Jove, or Woden Has led our Warrior band. Again we seek thy council, But not in cringing guise, We whine not for thy mercy, To slay; God make us wise. For slaves who shun the issue Who do not ask thy aid, To Thee we trust our spirits, Our bodies, unafraid. From doubt and fearsome bodings Still Thou our spirits guard, Make strong our souls to conquer. Give us the victory, Lord. General George S Patton Jnr As Head Of The Division Of Provision For Revision - Poem by General George S Patton Jnr As Head of the Division of Provision for Revision Was a man of prompt decision--Morton Quirk. Ph.D. in Calisthenics, P. D. Q. in Pathogenics He has just the proper background for the work. From the pastoral aroma of Aloma, Oklahoma With a pittance of a salary in hand His acceptance had been whetted, even aided and abetted By emolument that netted some five grand. So, with energy ecstatic this fanatic left his attic And hastened on to Washington, D.C. Where with verve and vim and vigor, he went hunting for the Nigger In the woodpile of the W. P. B. After months of patient process Morton's picular proboscis Had unearthed a reprehensible hiatus In reply by Blair and Blair to his thirteenth questionnaire In connection with their inventory status. They had written--'Your directive when effective was defective 'In its ultimate objective--and what's more 'Neolithic hieroglyphic is, to us, much more specific 'Than the drivel you keep dumping at our door.' This sacrilege discovered, Morton fainted--but recovered Sufficiently to write, 'We are convinced 'That sabotage is camouflaged behind perverted persiflage. 'Expect me on the 22nd inst.' But first he sent a checker, then he sent a checker's checker Still nothing was disclosed as being wrong. So a checker's checker's checker came to check the checker's checker And the process was laborious and long. Then followed a procession of the follow-up profession Through the records of the firm of Blair and Blair. From breakfast until supper some new super-follow-upper Tore his hair because of Morton's questionnaire. The file is closed, completed, though our Hero, undefeated Carries on in some Department as before. And Vict'ry is in sight of--not because of--but in spite of Doctor Morton's mighty efforts in the war. General George S Patton Jnr
