/k/ - Weapons

Suicide in the Trenches

Siegfried Sassoon oy vey

I knew a simple soldier boy

Who grinned at life in empty joy,

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

He put a bullet through his brain.

No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye

Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

Sneak home and pray you'll never know

The hell where youth and laughter go.

The Soldier

Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England’s, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

In Flanders Fields

John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Strange Meeting

Wilfred Owen

It seemed that out of battle I escaped

Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped

Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,

Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.

Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared

With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,

Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—

By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;

Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,

And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.

“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”

“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,

The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,

Was my life also; I went hunting wild

After the wildest beauty in the world,

Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,

But mocks the steady running of the hour,

And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.

For by my glee might many men have laughed,

And of my weeping something had been left,

Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,

The pity of war, the pity war distilled.

Now men will go content with what we spoiled.

Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.

They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.

None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery;

Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:

To miss the march of this retreating world

Into vain citadels that are not walled.

Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,

I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,

Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.

I would have poured my spirit without stint

But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.

Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.

I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned

Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.

I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.

Let us sleep now. . . .”

Freedom on the Wallaby

Henry Lawson

Australia’s a big country,

An’ Freedom’s humping bluey,

And Freedom’s on the wallaby;

Oh don’t you hear ’er cooey?

She’s just begun to boomerang.

She’ll knock the tyrants silly,

She’s going to light another fire

And boil another billy.

Our fathers toiled for bitter bread

While loafers thrived beside ’em,

But food to eat and clothes to wear,

Their native land denied ’em.

An’ so they left that native land,

In spite of their devotion,

An’ so they come, or if they stole,

Were sent across the ocean.

Then Freedom couldn’t stand the glare

Of Royalty’s regalia.

She left the loafers where they were

An’ come out to Australia.

But now across the mighty main

The chains have come ter bind her,

She little thought to see again

The wrongs she left behind her.

Our parents toiled to make a home,

Hard grubbin’ ’twas and clearin’,

They wasn’t crowded much with lords

When they was pioneerin’.

But now that we have made the land

A garden full of promise.

Old Greed must crook ’is dirty hand

An’ come ter take it from us.

So we must fly a rebel flag,

As others did before us,

And we must sing a rebel song

And join in rebel chorus.

We’ll make the tyrants feel the sting

O’ those that they would throttle;

They needn’t say the fault is ours,

If blood should stain the wattle.

The Beginnings

Rudyard Kipling

It was not part of their blood,

It came to them very late

With long arrears to make good,

When the English began to hate.

They were not easily moved,

They were icy-willing to wait

Till every count should be proved,

Ere the English began to hate.

Their voices were even and low,

Their eyes were level and straight.

There was neither sign nor show,

When the English began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd,

It was not taught by the State.

No man spoke it aloud,

When the English began to hate.

It was not suddenly bred,

It will not swiftly abate,

Through the chill years ahead,

When Time shall count from the date

That the English began to hate.

Speech: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”

William Shakespeare

(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

Bump

>>604000

>lmao literature and culture is for fags

I expect that sort of thing from Burgers, but not from Bongs. You disappoint your ancestors, from the Saxons to Kipling.

>>604114

Poetry is for fags not literature and culture.

Notice that I mentioned Lord of the rings gets a pass as it uses it as world building and a connection to knife eared faggots. This is acceptable.

I love my raifu.

She does not love me back though.

She jammed twice today.

>>604148

t. uncultured swing and probably wog.

Cold Iron

Rudyard Kipling

Gold is for the mistress – silver for the maid –

Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade."

"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,

"But Iron – Cold Iron – is master of them all."

So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,

Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.

"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,

"But Iron – Cold Iron – shall be master of you all!"

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,

When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;

He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,

And Iron – Cold Iron – was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)

"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"

"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,

For Iron – Cold Iron – is master of men all."

"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown –

Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."

"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,

For Iron – Cold Iron – must be master of men all!"

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)

"Here is Bread and here is Wine – sit and sup with me.

Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall

How Iron – Cold Iron – can be master of men all!"

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.

With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:

"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,

Show Iron – Cold Iron – to be master of men all."

"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.

Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.

I forgive thy treason – I redeem thy fall –

For Iron – Cold Iron – must be master of men all!"

"Crowns are for the valiant – sceptres for the bold!

Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!"

"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,

"But Iron – Cold Iron – is master of men all!

Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"

>>604223

Shut the fuck up, shanties are /k/

Speaking of Beowulf….

http://greermiddlecollege.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/beowulf__raffel_translation_.pdf

Vid related is a song, but the tale of Roland is worth hearing.

>>604437

>shanties

Do maching rhymes count? We sang this song exactly ONCE during basic (and many times afterwards in private). After one particularly stuck up officer heard us sing, we were ordered to not sing it again. It's not really a shanty, but it was fun and very /k/.

Auf der Straße nach Berlin
Traf ich eine Metzgerin
Sie versprach mir ein Pfund Speck
Wenn ich ihr die Fotze leck

Auf der Straße nach Berlin
Traf ich eine Schneiderin
Sie versprach mir eine Hose
Wenn ich sie von hinten stoße

Auf der Straße nach Berlin
Traf ich eine Kellnerin
Sie versprach mir Vier vom Fass
Wenn ich mich anpissen lass

Auf der Straße nach Berlin
Traf ich eine Wahrsagerin
Sie versprach mir ewiges Glück
Wenn ich sie ins Arschloch fick

Roughly translated:

On the road towards Berlin
I met a Butcherette
She promised me a pound of Bacon
If I lick her cunt

On the road towards Berlin
I met a female tailorette
She promised me a pair of pants
If I pound her from behind

On the road towards Berlin
I met a waitress
She promised me beer fresh from the keg
If I would let her piss on me

On the road towards Berlin
I met a Fortuneteller
She promised me everlasting luck
If would fuck her anus

I am sure some strelok could come along and make the concept fitting for English.

>>605188

Here's my shot at it:

On the road towards Berlin

I met a woman butcherin'

She promised me a pound of ham

If I went down and ate her clam

On the road towards Berlin

I met a woman tailorin'

She promised me a pair of britches

If I fucked her like a dog fucks bitches

On the road towards Berlin

I met a woman waitressin'

She promised me beer cold and clean

If she could spray me with her urine

On the road towards Berlin

I met a woman prophysyin'

She promised me everlasting luck

If I gave her ass a good hard fuck

>>605205

These are nice.