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Roy Rodel

of

Falkirk, Scotland, UK

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Willy Johnstone

by

Roy Rodel

Ma name is Willy Johnstone ah work in Edinburra Toon,
I've seen every deed bodey fae an auld man tae a young loon,
Ma names Willy Johnstone whit dae a dae,
I clean up bits ae deed bodies tae make ma, pay
I work for docktur sometimes I forget his name
Cause that auld auld man he must be so insane,
Cause se ma jobe is, Ma job is whoever you may be
Ma job is tae clean up these bits ae bodey's,
I work in a surgeree in Edinburra Toon,
it disnae metter if yer an auld grawn man or if yer one young wee loon,
Cause I've picked up yer erm when the auld docktors cut off yer baws I've mopped up yer sperm,
And believe me when he cuts off yer heed I pray tae the lord in heaven I hope yer deed,
I've seen mens hearts I've heard deed men fart, it's wierd,
But I just goin efter it's aw done,
An see when that dockturs feenished naebody will ever walk again naebody will ever run,
I donno where ae gets thum cause it'll no be mine
,Cause ah dinnae want that auld mad docktur tae pull oot tae pull oot may spine ,cause its mine,
But as days go buy and they gae me ma piy,
I try to keep oot ae that auld madmans wiy,
Ma name is Willy Johnstone, Johnstone wi an e,
Lord help that auld mad docktur and lord help me,
I jist dae whit am telt cause if a dinnae he'll hit me so hard wae his belt I'll greet,
He'll hit me oan the heed he'll hit me oan the feet,
So aw the guts an aw the inside ae aw these folk they lie aw aboot,
fae the thin tae the stoot,
My name is Willy Johnstone don't you forget ma name,
Cause I am the man that had to go insane for you,
Wi' the mad docktur an awe,
Don' you forget.


THE POSTER

by

Roy Rodel

The party's propaganda machine was alive again,
It had produced a poster that explained the pain,
It had no caption, not one word,
Something they thought was wonderful even if absurd,
It represented simply the monstrous figure of a soldier,
A wreckless, unforgiving faceless bombadier,
It was four yards wide and three yards high,
It was big that's something no one could deny,
He was striding forward with an expressionless face,
Threatening your culture, threatening your race,
He wore enormous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip.
The weapon controled by the strength of his grip,
From where ever you looked at the poster,
The muzzle of the gun, magnified by the foreshortening, hanging free without a holster,
It seemed to be pointed straight at you.
It was as frightening as a real military coo,
The poster had been plastered on every blank space on every wall,
On every school and every churh hall.

It was targeted at people who were normally apathetic about the war,
It was created to produce hate,it was something to abhor,
The people were being lashed into one of their periodical frenzies of patriotism,
In the air was the smell of ultranationalism,
This was to harmonize with the general mood,
It was well known and understood,
The enemy bombs had been killing larger numbers of people than usual,
Or so they were told by the partys audio and visual,
One fell on a crowded hospital, burying several hundred victims among the ruins.
Releasing all its fire and skin eating toxins,
Another bomb fell on a playground,
Another horrible sight, another horrible sound,
Their leaders were burned in effigy,
Like a drug it gave the people tranquility,
Hundreds of copies of the poster of the soldier were torn down and added to the flame,
Revenge was on their minds they needed someone to blame,
Shops were looted in the turmoil ,
In the frenzy their blood began to boil,
A rumour flew round that spies were directing the bombs by means of wireless waves,
Puting them and their children in an early grave,
A backward old man was suspected of being of foreign extraction.
Had his house set on fire and perished of suffocation.
A whole neighbourhood had allready turned out for a funeral ,
Very few last repects, this was a patriotic burial,
This was in effect an indignation meeting.
The party had won with the posters they were posting,