GALLIPOLI, GALLIPOLI

GALLIPOLI, GALLIPOLI

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, it's on the kiddies' lips,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, the lovely battleships.
The flags of Empire flutter in the sky,
The tooters toot, and all the hooters hoot,
The bronzed colonials march away to die.

To shoot an enemy they're told to shoot.
Many have swapped a swag for this kitbag;
The sun is sinking, colour-patches blend
And melt together, like a chequered flag,
That turns blood-red, all bloody red at evening's end.

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, you'll hear the kiddies sing,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, for country, God and King.

The bloom of youth lies shattered on this field,
Thick scrub drips with the resins of dying men,
Green flies glitter where the scalp has peeled,
All the King's medals for the boys again.
Calf and collar bones, white as porcelain,
Stick out of stinking curtains of meat,
And, full in the sunlight, a pulsing brain
Still throbs with the passion of the battle's heat.

Attention, Spring! wash out these battle tears,
The pain and courage goes in a dirty song,
I can hear colonials singing it down the years,
They’ll fight our wars from Cape town to Saigon;
Stand easy, Summer! you have done your part,

The orchard's growing greener than the sea,
And to ease the Anzac mother's heart,
We've planted gum trees without any fee.

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, you've often heard’em say,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, Australia's glory day.

They gathered up these hats and bags and guns,
They shipped them home across the boiling sea,
They let the Anzac's sons, and their sons' sons
See only what they wanted them to see.
They didn't want the pain to be displayed,
The anger or the loss, they scoured the mud
And filth from relics, holy-water sprayed,
They scrubbed off every drop of tell-tale blood.

They built a war-house up here in the hills,
In quiet and peace the people come and go,
None of the weapons scalds or cuts or kills,
None of the mines are ticking for a blow.
They tell us why we fought, for what we died,

They tell us when to cheer, and when to cry,
They order us to wear their lies with pride,
And then they teach us quicker ways to die.

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, itís on the kiddies' lips,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, the lovely battleships.
I know a man survived this holocaust,
On Thursdays, when the crowds in Martin Place
Gape at the ritual, and the drummer
Drums a base, he was surprised
As if by shells, as he walked past,
And stumbled at the sound of the sudden drum,
On his sleeve he wiped red whiskers
From his lungs, two hives of pain
From the whiff of gas he got, and then
He sucked breath in, like a crack
In tidal rocks, coughed
Harsh, and sharp, and loud,
Like a rifle shot, staggered
And nearly fell, while somebody nearby laughed.
Me, I don't need glory memorials for war,
Like dreams, this man's
My living, suffering cenotaph.

And where are the diggers' voices, anyway?
They're squashed between the gilded
Official bray, and the scholar's "concise"
History. But there's a legend that may suffice,
They say that the scented halls
Of the war-house in Canberra, when the moon
Is bright and low, are filled
With a fierce shrieking, like a drunks' carouse,
Of shell-shocked diggers' screaming:
"No! Vote no! Vote no!"

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, you've often heard 'em say,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, Australia's glory day.

The flags of Empire flutter in the sky,
The tooters toot, and all the hooters hoot
The bronzed colonials march away to die,
To shoot an enemy they're told to shoot.
Many have swapped a swag for this kitbag;
The sun is sinking, colour-patches blend
And melt together, like a chequered flag,
That turns blood-red, all bloody red, at evening's end.

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, it's on the kiddiesí lips
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, the lovely battleships.

Gallipoli, Gallipoli, youíll hear the kiddies sing,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli, for country, God and King.

'The Great Prawn War and Other Poems' 1982by Denis Kevans.