An old MASH poem I wrote way back in '98 for a college poetry class…please enjoy; I know it's kinda sing-songey, if that's even a word…but be kind and gentle.
Letter from the front
By CiceroPhelps
Dear Dad,
The rotors twirl,
the dust also swirls.
"Incoming wounded, folks!"
The lights are dim,
the conditions, grim.
No time for any false hopes.
There's no time to be neat,
you think on your feet.
With a man's life in your hands, you are vexed.
Scoop out the mud,
and pump in some blood.
Stitch him up and then holler "Next!"
I stumble out of O.R.
from my laborious chore,
and crawl to my bed in The Swamp.
I just can't stand Frank,
my annoying tent-mate
I'd rather give the new nurse a good romp.
Now it's time for some swill,
I think I'll open the still,
and pour out a good, stiff drink.
Our brand of liquor
is more potent, and quicker,
than anything under the sink.
Dear God, there's a beep
It must be a jeep
And it is unnannounced, too.
This kid'll need
a tracheotomy
because he's turning bright blue.
Off with the green clothes,and on with the white
it will probably go on like this all night,
and straight through until the dawn.
It's at times like this
that a man learns to miss
sipping a martini in his front lawn.
Scalpel, other equipment, and more,
long since bloody, litter the floor
while orderlies get them out of the way.
We're like golfers, by far,
since we're going for par,
which means patching him up today.
Bombs are burst overhead,
I wish I were in my bed.
The dust and the cold are our enemies.
We must get this kid
Patched up in the head
Or else, it won't matter if he freezes.
And this war still goes on,
till the last shell is gone.
(A really crummy idea.)
We either freeze or we swelter
in our canvas shelters.
Who ever told you I liked Korea?
The choppers keep coming
while my fingers are drumming
on an old, wooden desk in Post Op.
So, come shine or rain,
I'll be here again,
doing surgery until I drop.
Write me care of the war, dad.