These men of Indian Armoured Corps..

a poem by Rita Joyce Singh, India

A career risked down the chute
Saved but by humour, being astute

Such as, makes wonder, what's in store,
Their humour or valour is more?

So be warned, t'is a yarn-story,
To gauge humour, guts and glory.

Of gallant men, the rarest breed,
The Indian Armoured Corps of creed.

Tales of courage are galore,
And, that great humour backs each lore.

Facing death, or under fire,
Guts and humour, never tire.

On any given occasion,
Their present mind is to the pun.

Nicknamed the regiment's greenhorn,
A term for those not battle worn.

One adjutant was called upon,
To draft an invite in good form.

All night rum-shot his pen he smote,
Discarding form, codswallop wrote.

When he saw the drafted copy,
Writ liberties, deeply sloppy.

The commandant scowled like thunder,
What fiend proposed this gross blunder.

Such nose ups at civilities,
Spit and polish formalities.

Livid, he summoned the greenhorn,
To rue the day he was born on.

Marched up bravely, the adjutant,
bit surprised, but no sycophant.

(Least doubtful that his own repute,
Could leave him on booted pursuit).

Justified his crime and reason
Humour is not, nor rhyme treason.

He waxed humoured contrivances,
Changing hearts and countenances.

Decorum and its rules went gaffe,
The C.O. choked lest, he let laugh.

This rascal more than seemed dapper,
Such lads are born to be sapper.

What Sangfroid, what Savoir fare,
The lad had wits about and dare.

The C.O.,... dander dying blunt,
Growled, "Lad you pulled off quite a stunt!

How now you strive frivolous mad!
Your path to hell is paved my lad!

Dogged, you could hold safe a fort!
Or drive the foe down his own throat!"

Then with a shaking on his girth,
His moustache quivering with mirth,

He laughed, annihilating wits,
Back thumped the adjutant in fits.

When he sobered down, he thus spake,
"Good lad, your courage takes the cake,

The baker and the bakery.
True, Armoured Corps writes history.

True, unhumoured minds be not free,
To fight for God and our country.

Get quick, this invite into print,
Esprit de Corps cannot be stint.

Just as good we dine, dance and breathe,
We shall greet battle on the seethe.

Attend ball ere the dust and heat,
Esprit de Corps shall be drunk neat.

This rowdy draft, though not our best,
Shall engage hearts to how we jest.

On the plains, before the rains start,
My men at arms shall brave their part.

Some shall return and some depart,
Each man, God knows, is stout of heart.

When folks recall our dead at rest,
Awe shall voice, they dined with the best.

Make haste, invite the town as guest,

Thus, valour lends heat to humour,
And, well paired both come to the fore.

These men of Indian Armoured Corps,
Fine, humoured, bravehearts to the core.

NOTE: a 17 year old poem ..rehashed from some dusty shelves......'The Hilarious 'Invite' drafted by the adjutant is untraceable though... In a hurry...will say hello in January.Love to VN.

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