Grady’s Poems T (2 of 2) and U

Deep within the pits we sit
And look to where the bullets hit.
That is, I mean, to where they should
The bulls-eye target, not the wood
That frames the circles in the square.
The richochets that part your hair
And sizzle off the parapet
To leave their profiles in the net
Are harmless once they’ve passed you by –
But never say they didn’t try!

(on giving the OD your GO, as written)

Down upon Pier Seventeen
Relief is few and far between
For those who pace the weathered front,
Or so it was one night when Runt,
The Squirrel, was there upon patrol
And wearing out more G.I. sole:
So when the O.D. came his way,
He stopped to pass the time of day.

Have you ever planned a garden?
Hoed it through with minute care
Not a weed or grass root pardon
Track each gopher to his lair?
Trace him to a fresh turned dirt pile
Where you had a stalk of corn
Or a budding bed of myrtle
Standing on the mound, forlorn?
Then begins the merry hunting
As with hose and water (wet)
You drowned out half the neighborhood
And here’s the thanks you get.
No recompense for labor,
When he won’t be caught he won’t
Because, you see, with gophers
Now you have him, now you don’t!
Here we have a close up view
Of a draftee in his new
Uniform that is his own,
Tho ’tis not the same as shown
In the stylish fashion plates.
Once he was within the gates
Of the office where supplies
Are given to selected guys,
He discovered that the clothes
They hang on us, by the pose
They assume when they are draped
On his frame, were never shaped
To satisfy a tailor’s thought
Of the only way they ought
To look when he is wearing them,
From collar tight to baggy hem
Their three sizes are, to wit;
Too large, too small and doesn’t fit!

Once on an inspection morn
There was a sleepy soldier, torn
From downy bunk and slumber land
They led him to his place, to stand
A weary lad. Upon his shoe
There was no shine, nor yet a clue
As how to find the vanished pants;
And so he stood, and so he slants.
It is such sights as this, you see,
That make an officer to be
A trifle gray above the gills;
For all his work, for all the drills,
That this should happen on the day
When they are placed upon display.

Pay days come and pay days go,
But what is there I have to show?
For all the twenty one I earn
There is no part I can discern
To tell me what my ratings are;
One glass of beer upon the bar,
One try at hot licks with the bones
Show no moss grows on rolling stones,
Repay my thoughtful friends who were
So loose with dough, at twenty per,
The PX checks have come and gone
Which leaves me yet more overdrawn
Except for one small bit of change
With which I think to try my range
And sit me to a friendly game
Of cut-throat stud, not quite the same
As never having played at all
For now there is no hope to stall
The truth of that so ancient saying;
“Yardbirds are forever paying!”
We have often heard it said,
And in the papers we have read,
That when Aquatic Park is set
Aside for Army use, they’ll let
The soldier boys upon the beach
Where each will rate a gorgeous peach
To wile away a summer’s day
With healthy fun and frolic, play
Is good for boys away from home;
This is one beach we’d like to comb!