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Edward Dyson - Mickey Mollynoo
Work rating: Low

A mile-long panto dragon ploddin` 
     `opeless all the day, 
Stuffed out with kits, `n` spiked with rifles, 
     steamin` in its sweat, 
A-heavin` down the misty road, club-footed 
     through the clay, 
By waggons bogged `n` buckin` guns, 
     the wildest welter yet, 
Like `arf creation`s tenants shiftin` early 
     in the wet. 

We`re marchin` out, we dunno where, to meet 
     we dunno who; 
But here we lights eventual, `n` sighs `n` 
     slips the kit, 
`N`, `struth, the first to take us on is Mickie 
     Mollynoo! 
A copper of the Port he was, when `istory 
     was writ. 
Sez I : “We`re sent to face the foe, `n`, selp 
     me, this is It.” 

A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up 
     with the push 
Is all his joy. One evenin` when his 
     baton`s flyin` free 
I takes a baby brick, `n` drives it hard agin 
     the cush, 
`N` Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the 
     world to see, 
But not afore indelible he`s put his mark on 
     me. 

I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me 
     lug 
Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them 
     `appy, careless days. 
He`s sargin` now, a vet`ran; I`m a newchum 
     and a mug, 
`N` when he sorter fixes me there`s some- 
     thin` in his gaze 
That`s pensive like. “Move on!” sez he. 
     “Keep movin` there!” he says. 

If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous 
     and crool, 
The mills in Butcher`s Alley when the 
     watch is on the wine, 
Those nights he raided Wylie`s shed to break 
     the two-up school, 
I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that 
     ain`t divine 
He`s toyin` with a scar of old I reckernise 
     as mine. 

`N` so I`m layin` for it, `n` I`m wonderin` how 
     `n` what. 
We`re signed on with the Germans, `n` there 
     ain`t a vacant date; 
But sure it`s comin` to me, `n` it`s comin` `ard 
     `n` `ot. 
Me lurk is patient waitin`, but I`m trim- 
     min` while I wait 
A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin` 
     tatertate. 

Oh, judge me wonder! There`s a scrim that 
     follers on a raid. 
I`m roughin` it all-in with Hans. He sock 
     me such a bat 
I slides on somethin` narsty, `n` me little grave 
     is made; 
But Molly butts my Hun, `n` leaves no face 
     beneath his hat, 
`N`, “`Scuse me, Mister Herr,” sez he, “I have a lien on that!” 

He helps me under cover, `n` he `ands me 
     somethin` wet 
(I`ve got a lick or two that leaves me feelin` 
     pretty sick). 
“Lor love yeh, ole John Hop,” sez I, “yiv 
     buried me in debt.” 
“Don`t minton ut at all,” he sez, `n` eyes 
     me arf-a-tick. 
`N` back there in the trench I sits, `n` trims 
     another brick. 

`Tis all this how a month or more; then 
     Mollynoo sez he: 
“Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell `n` 
     all to view. 
A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you `n` 
     me. 
The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the 
     Continent is you, 
Bar one, yeh gougin` thafe, `n` that is 
     Sargin` Mollynoo!” 

I take, with knife `n` pistol, arf a brick to line 
     me shirt. 
We creeps a thousan` yards or so to jigger 
     up a gun 
Which seven Huns is workin` on the Irish like 
     a squirt. 
We gets across them, me `n` him. I pots 
     the extra one; 
Mick chokes his third in comfort, `n`, 
     be`old, the thing is done! 

He stands above me, rakin` sweat from off his 
     gleamin` nut. 
“Me dipper`s leakin`, Mick,” sez I; “me 
     leg is bit in two.” 
Sez he: “Bleed there in comfort, I`m for 
     bringin` help, ye scut.” 
He`s back in twenty minutes, with a dillied 
     German crew. 
“Three`ll carry in the gun,” sez he, “the 
     rest will carry you.” 

I dunno how he got `em, but he made them 
     barrer me. 
They lugged the gun before him, `n` he 
     yarded them like geese. 
Then Mickie s`lutes the Major. “They`re in 
     custody,” sez he, 
“Fer conduc` calculated to provoke a breach 
     iv peace, 
A-tearin` iv me uniform, `n` `saultin` the 
     po-lice.” 

Then down he dumped. His wounds would 
     make a `arf a column list. 
When hack to front I chucks me bricks `n` 
     smiles the best I can. 
He grins at me: “Yer right,” sez he, “Hold 
     out yer bla`-guard fist, 
I couldn`t fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted 
     in me pan. 
This messin` round wid Germans makes a 
     chicken iv a man.”
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