"Clerihews," said Kinch, as he emerged from the tunnel.

"Gesundheit," replied Carter, not looking up from the delayed action timer he was putting together, taking up the whole of the table for the task.

"No, Andrew, I said clerihews," Kinch sighed patiently. "We got another entry for the poetry competition, a set of clerihews." He held up a sheet of paper. "Short biographies, four lines, irregular length and metre."

"Any good?" asked Newkirk, putting out his hand to take the message.

Kinch held it out of reach. "You'll have to wait and see," he replied with a grin.

"Blimey, that don't sound promising." And Newkirk leaned back
again. "LeBeau, you'd better get the colonel out here."

"Get him yourself, I'm busy." LeBeau, sitting on Carter's bunk, brandished the torn shirt he was attempting to repair.

"You know, you're going about that entirely the wrong way," observed Newkirk, regarding the torn seam with a condescending smirk.

"Well, if you don't approve, maybe you would like to do it," said LeBeau.
"Far be it from me to deprive you of productive employment."

"Or to do anything useful yourself. Typical English, you're all lazy from birth. It's no wonder the British Empire is in trouble."

"At least we've still got an Empire..."

"Okay, can it, you two." Kinch broke into what was shaping up into a serious international incident. "Carter, call Colonel Hogan."

"Colonel Hogan!" yelled Carter, without even raising his head.

"That's very good, Carter," muttered Newkirk. "Can you do it again, when I get my hearing back?"

Hogan emerged from his quarter. "Something up?" he asked brusquely.

"Another one of those messages, Colonel," replied Kinch "You know - the poetry competition."

"This is getting ridiculous," sighed Hogan. "Okay, let's have the worst of it. Kinch, you can do the honours."

Kinch straightened up, and in a voice trembling with suppressed amusement, began to read aloud.

Colonel Robert E Hogan
has no need of a slogan.
His team of saboteurs and spies
is something he doesn't want to advertise.

"That's not so bad," remarked Newkirk cautiously. "At least it makes some kind of sense."

Carter frowned over his work. "It doesn't scan," he said, after a few moments of deep thought.

"It doesn't have to, Andrew," Kinch explained. "It's..."

"Clerihew, right?" Hogan interrupted. "Yeah, thought so. Well, it could have been worse. File it somewhere safe, Kinch." He turned to go back to his office."

"Hang on, Colonel," said Kinch quickly. "I haven't finished." He glanced at Carter with a sly grin, then fixed his eyes firmly on the paper as he continued the recital.

Andrew Carter
would probably seem a lot smarter
if he hadn't so much fascination
with detonation.

"Well, that ain't very nice," protested Carter.

Maybe not, but it's probably true. Nobody said it, but the thought was in everyone's mind. Carter looked round suspiciously.

"Oh, okay, you all think it's funny, right? Well, I bet there's something there about you guys, too."

"There sure is, Carter." Kinch's eyes moved on to LeBeau, who met the look with a sudden sense of unease.

"I'm not afraid," he said, raising his chin. "Go ahead - read it."

Louis LeBeau
has never much cared for blanquette de veau.
He prefers something he can sauté,
as it sounds a bit naughté.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the entire barracks, except for one man, dissolved into hysterical laughter.

"Oh, that's bad. That's just..." stuttered Newkirk, almost incoherent.

"I'm pretty sure that's outlawed by the Geneva Convention," added Hogan, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Carter didn't say a word; he was too far gone to catch his breath.

LeBeau scowled at them. "Oui, oui, très amusant. I'll bet that writer is English. They have no shame - no shame at all." He waited till the hilarity died down, then added, "Well? Is there any more?"

Kinch nodded; but it took him almost half a minute to steady his voice enough to go on.

Peter Newkirk
doesn't exactly eschew work,
But he'd rather contemplate
than participate.

Newkirk sat bolt upright, speechless with indignation.

"Nailed you alright, buddy," sniggered Carter.

LeBeau's eyes were still sparkling, but no longer with rage. "I've changed my mind. The writer is not English at all. Only a Frenchman could see the truth so clearly."

"That's going too far," growled Newkirk, finding his voice. "It's insulting - it's character assassination - and it's an imperfect rhyme. I'm writing to the Times about this."

"You can't, Newkirk," Hogan put in firmly. "This whole operation is still classified top secret. Anyway, you'd never bother. Too much like hard work."

Newkirk folded his arms, and continued to grumble under his breath.

"Is that it, Kinch?" Hogan added, as Kinch folded the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket.

"That's all." Kinch replied with a shrug.

"Hey, that's not very fair," remarked Carter. "How come you get out of it?"

"That's right." Newkirk came out of his sulks to join in the attack. "Come on, Kinch, there has to be one about you, too. Let's have it."

Kinch shook his head. "I guess the writer couldn't find anything to rhyme with Kinchloe," he said, in a slightly dejected tone. "Or doesn't think I'm important enough. Anyway, I missed out."

He headed back towards the tunnel entrance, but stopped as Hogan spoke. "Kinch, I think maybe I should hang onto that message. Give it to me, I'll keep it in my office."

"Uh...sure, Colonel," said Kinch evasively. "But it's pretty hard to read, I scribbled it down in a hurry. I'll make a fair copy for you." And he vanished into the tunnel before anyone could renew the discussion.

He sat down at the radio desk, drew the folded paper from his pocket, and began transcribing; four verses, in his neatest handwriting. The fifth he omitted, but he smiled as he read it over again. The writer had indeed struggled with finding a rhyme for his name, and in the time-honoured tradition of literary composition, had fudged it.

James Kinchloe, known as Kinch,
finds running the secret radio a cinch,
but having to always be sensible
is incomprehensible.

At the bottom of the page was the last fragment of the transmission; a set of initials.

d.o.t.w.

Kinch didn't know what they stood for, but he knew one thing. If they ever appeared on any communication again, he'd be careful who he showed it to.

AN: The poems are supposed to be centered, as stated by the author. However, Microsoft Word is currently being difficult.

Also, I only have one more poem in the anthology, and possibly a couple of my own. I know everybody is probably busy with FanFic Court right now, but if another poem pops into your mind, please don't hesitate to send it/them in!