Oh, soldier, soldier

Hi

It's been a while, I know, and I'm sorry. I have been writing though, so I have a good excuse.

An idea has floated around my head for years, about the girl in the song, 'Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me?' and the lengths she could go to these days to snare a man - a few clothes from her grandfather's chest would surely not attract a guy these days. Over the last couple of days (and partially inspired by a line from my recent short story, 'The lift descending') the idea has finally condensed into a completed poem! Anyway, as usual, it turned into something dark, something with a jaunty meter but with some serious themes... Look, I'll just paste it below and you can take a read, maybe tell me what you think. Okay? Great. Here it is:

Oh, soldier, soldier

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, because your hair should be more fair.

So off she went to the apothecary

And bought some bleach that - nice 'n' easily -

Turned to straw her hair that once curled so beautifully

And it made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos your laughter causes wrinkles and your smile produces crinkles.

So off she went, for a Botox session -

The most 'acutely lethal toxin' known to the medical profession -

Though she could neither chew nor close her eyes, it started an obsession

And it made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos the features on your face look a little out of place.

So off she popped for some plastic surgery

And though she paid several times, it still looked a mess to me

Her nose was too big and her lips lacked symmetry

Still they made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos your tits are the size of orange pips.

So she flew to Belarus for more plastic surgery

And acquired some tits that looked very strange to me

Tight bloated tits full of sad asymmetry

Yet they made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos that unsightly cellulite won't keep me up all night.

So off she went for some lipo surgery

Though to tell you the truth, her bum and thighs looked great to me

And the results, though expensive, were much worse than most you'll see

Yet they made the soldier (who, after 5 years service overseas, had a noticeable and rather - if you ask me - unhealthy arse fetish) cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos I'd prefer my fiancée to have, at most, the skin tone of Beyoncé. 

Apprehensively she paid for dodgy surgery

Where they gave her stuff - hydroquinone, steroids and mercury -

Fucking dangerous stuff, it was very clear to see

And, though she was quite ill when she got home, she still somehow managed, at his insistence, to make the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, because (though I have been too polite to mention this before) your cunt is so loose I may as well stick my cock out of the window and fuck the world.

So, yes, you guessed it, the silly cow spent a small fortune putting herself once again under general anaesthetic and into the hands of an under-qualified Filipino butcher who completely fucked up her hitherto quite beautiful pussy.

And, after months of infection, antibiotics, and pain-relief, the soldier insisted instead on a blow job then the cunt rolled over and went to sleep without so much as a fucking thank you.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry you because, despite all your efforts, which I appreciate very much - and that, thinking about it, must have cost you a fucking fortune - your insecurity is such a turn-off for me that I have decided to go back to my ex who - though she is a complete psycho-bitch - is aesthetically an unlikely cross between Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie and Halle Berry.

*

Oh, Alex, Alex! What am I to do? No one will want me now!

Oh, no, sweet girl, come to Alex, baby; he was a complete cunt and you're better off without him.

So I held her till she stopped sobbing, cuddled up and kissed her gently and repeatedly, and told her she had been beautiful all along, and then, as the dark night bleached into a bright and beautiful tomorrow, I slowly and lovingly made her cum.

And though it is impossible to establish a direct link between any of the procedures Charlie undertook and her untimely death last year, I am certain that, were it not for the greedy amoral media and the obscenely heedless and cynical pharmaceutical, surgical, and cosmetic industries that drive young girls to seek unattainable perfection, my love would still be with me today.

*