Analysis of Bill The Bomber
The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;
The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist;
And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;
'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came.
'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink,
For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think.
So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream
Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream;
But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke:
"Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.
We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead;
But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead,
Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound,
And it's odd -- we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground.
And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew,
How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through;
So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin,
And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in.
And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run,
A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one."
Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm,
For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am.
I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because
I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.
We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer;
Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near;
And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew,
And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two."
I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see,
And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me.
And I'd lost me 'at and rifle -- but I told you that before,
So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more.
But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet,
And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set,
And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead,
And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead;
When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee,
And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three."
So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that,
And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at;
And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said:
"If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead."
And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs -- that was the 'ardest blow,
To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe.
And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad,
And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad.
And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again,
Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.
Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot,
And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got,
I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out
Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out;
And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at;
And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat;
And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad,
Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad.
For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere
This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.
Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain,
So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain;
And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me,
And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . .
And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear;
And now they're all excited like, but -- I am drawin' near;
And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . .
Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.
And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin',
And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.
Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole,
And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.
And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell,
And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.
And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive;
We started out a thousand m
Scheme | AABBCCDDEEFFGGHHIIJJ XXXXKKHH LLMMNNFFLL OOFFPPQQXR SSTTOOQQXK RRLLKKBBIB UUVVXX |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 01011101110101 0101011010111 0111011110101 11111111101 11010101111101 1110100110111 11111010011011 10110101011101 1110111011111 111101011111101 11100101110111 101110101110101 10110111110101 011110111110101 011110101010101 11101011011011 111110111 001110100010110 011101001101 01011100111101 111110101110111 111111101010111 111110101110101 11110111110111 1101111110111 1001011111101 00101110010101 011111100111101 111110111111111 011111101010111 011110101111101 11111110111010111 10111100010101 0111101111111 01101110111111 011011101110101 1101011110101 01111101111101 1111111010111 0111011111 0101110010111 11111111011111 011111111011 11110101111101 01111010101111 01111111010111 01110101110101 01111101110111 111101101111 0111101111111 110101101111 11010101101111 011010110111111 01111010111101 011100100111101 111100111011111 11101111010101 11011101111001 11111010110111 1110111011111 01111101111111 0111111111111 0111110101101 0111010111111 0111110101111 11111111111101 01111110011101 011011001011 111011111110111 01110111011111 0111101111101 011101111111111 0110010011101 11010101 |
Closest metre | Iambic heptameter |
Characters | 4,446 |
Words | 887 |
Sentences | 34 |
Stanzas | 7 |
Stanza Lengths | 20, 8, 10, 10, 10, 10, 6 |
Lines Amount | 74 |
Letters per line (avg) | 45 |
Words per line (avg) | 12 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 478 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 127 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 25, 2023
- 4:31 min read
- 79 Views
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"Bill The Bomber" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 16 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/32012/bill-the-bomber>.
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