Best POEM involving guns...

[goon]

IIRC, this one is Irish.
Not the best really (I tend to not support centuries old blood feuds) but probably one that not many have heard of:

My Little Armalite

I was stopped by a soldier he said "you are a swine"
He hit me with his rifle and he kicked me in the groin
I bowed and I scraped, sure my manners were polite
Ah, but all the time I was thinking of me little Armalite!

Chorus:
And it's up along the bogside that's were I long to be
Lying in the dark with the Provo company
A comrade on my left and another one on me right
And a clip of ammunition for me little Armalite!

A brave RUC man came walking up our street
With 600 British soldiers gathered round his feet,
Come out ya cowardly Fenians come on out and fight
But he cried I'm only joking when he heard my Armalite!

Chorus:
And it's down along the Falls Road that's were I long to be
Lying in the dark with a Provo company
A comrade on my left and another one on me right
And a clip of ammunition for me little Armalite!

The army came to visit me 'twas in the early hours
With saracens and saladins and buggered armoured cars,
They thought they had me cornered but I gave them all a fright
With the armourpiercing bullets of me little Armalite!

Chorus:
And it's up in Crossmaglen that's were I long to be
Lying in the dark with a Provo company
A comrade on my left and another one on me right
And a clip of ammunition for me little Armalite!

Well the premier came to Belfast to see the battles won
The generals had told them we have them on the run,
The corporals and privates while on patrol at night
Said "send home for re-enforcement's it's the bloody Armalite!"

Chorus:
And it's up in old Poleglass that's were I long to be
Lying in the dark with a Provo company
A comrade on my left and another one on me right
And a clip of ammunition for me little Armalite!



Seems the IRA had a thing for the Armalite AR-18.

 

[Neo-Luddite]

“Brown Bess”
(THE ARMY MUSKET—1700 – 1815)
Rudyard Kipling


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

IN THE days of lace-ruffles, perukes and brocade
Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise—
An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade,
With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes—
At Blenheim and Ramillies fops would confess
They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess.
Though her sight was not long and her weight was not small
Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear;
And everyone bowed as she opened the ball
On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier.
Half Europe admitted the striking success
Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess,

When ruffles were turned into stiff leather stocks
And people wore pigtails instead of perukes
Brown Bess never altered her iron-grey locks,
She knew she was valued for more than her looks.
“Oh, powder and patches was always my dress,
And I think I am killing enough,” said Brown Bess.

So she followed her red-coats, whatever they did,
From the heights of Quebec to the plains of Assaye,
From Gibraltar to Acre, Cape Town and Madrid,
And nothing about her was changed on the way;
(But most of the Empire which now we possess
Was won through those years by old-fashioned Brown Bess.)

In stubborn retreat or in stately advance,
From the Portugal coast to the cork-woods of Spain
She had puzzled some excellent Marshals of France
Till none of them wanted to meet her again:
But later, near Brussels, Napoleon—no less—
Arranged for a Waterloo ball with Brown Bess.

She had danced till the dawn of that terrible day—
She danced on till dusk of more terrible night,
And before her linked squares his battalions gave way
And her long fierce quadrilles put his lancers to flight:
And when his gilt carriage drove off in the press,
“I have danced my last dance for the world!” said Brown Bess.

If you go to Museums—there’s one in Whitehall—
Where old weapons are shown with their names writ beneath,
You will find her, upstanding, her back to the wall,
As stiff as a ramrod, the flint in her teeth.
And if ever we English had reason to bless
Any arm save our mothers’, that arm is Brown Bess!

 

[zoom6zoom]

Roses are red.
Revolvers are blue.
I don't like Glocks
But maybe you do.