Poem Set in a Remote Outpost of the British Army

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We go to bate the jauntier hun,

the pearl that grows in the wadi.

One jaunt leaves half the team

without toenails,

just shims in obis sucking up toxic puds

and fingering the pearly hafts of their rifles.

So we spar amongst ourselves,

eke out our wraths in full gillie, knees against

the dashboard of the van. Moods darken.

We grow fins, detox and

finally we cede the zone.

Spare us, ay, if you so desire.

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This poem is constructed entirely out of words placed during a game of Scrabble.

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