Combat Report
by JOHN PUDNEY
Just then I saw the bloody Hun.
You saw the Hun? You, light and easy,
Carving the soundless daylight. I was breezy
When I saw that Hun. Oh wonder,
Pattern of stress, of nerve poise, flyer,
Overtaking time. He came out under
Nine-tenths cloud, but I was higher.
Did Michelangelo aspire,
Painting the laughing cumulus, to ride
The majesty of air. He was a trier —
I’ll give him that, the Hun. So you convert
Ultimate sky to air speed, drift, and cover:
Sure with the tricky tools of God and lover.
I let him have a sharp four-second squirt,
Closing to fifty yards. He went on fire.
Your deadly petals painted, you exert
A simple stature. Man-high, without pride,
You pick your way through heaven and the dirt.
He burnt out in the air: that’s how the poor sod died.
You saw the Hun? You, light and easy,
Carving the soundless daylight. I was breezy
When I saw that Hun. Oh wonder,
Pattern of stress, of nerve poise, flyer,
Overtaking time. He came out under
Nine-tenths cloud, but I was higher.
Did Michelangelo aspire,
Painting the laughing cumulus, to ride
The majesty of air. He was a trier —
I’ll give him that, the Hun. So you convert
Ultimate sky to air speed, drift, and cover:
Sure with the tricky tools of God and lover.
I let him have a sharp four-second squirt,
Closing to fifty yards. He went on fire.
Your deadly petals painted, you exert
A simple stature. Man-high, without pride,
You pick your way through heaven and the dirt.
He burnt out in the air: that’s how the poor sod died.