Philip Neilsen

 

Biggles Flies Again at 95

 

Philip Neilsen

 
Head for that clearing in the jungle Captain Bigglesworth –
a bumpy landing and a wink from Ginger.
Jump out nimbly as possible,
spray machine gun fire at surrounding bushes
where gullible natives in the pay of the Hun
could be lurking to ambush a chap.
But you’ve landed in the London botanic gardens,
killed seventeen French tourists
and a Bulgarian nanny pushing a pram.
The frogs won’t be missed, nor the commie.
Setting up HQ in a greenhouse, you wait for orders,
which anachronistically come in a telegram
from swarthy, foreign types in Brussels.
‘Age of heroic individual never existed. Stop.
If you had been better at Latin and History
than rugby, you might have understood that. Stop.
Shake hands firmly with Ginger. Stop.
Place pistol in mouth – think (if possible)
of European Union. Stop. Pull trigger. Stop.’

 

 

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