On the beaches of Gallipoli,
in the Straits of the Dardenelles.
The cliffs hung like tattered scenery,
on a circus carousel.
The men rode their rocking ferries,
to a dark and hostile shore;
from the heights the fire was raking,
'cause that's the luck of war.
A man walked with his donkey,
across those alleys of fear.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his burden so dear.
A man walked with his donkey,
through the deadly leaden hail;
a man walking with his donkey,
surely would not fail.
A man walked with his donkey,
but it was no idle stroll.
Not a picnic or fairground fancy,
but a pit of tortured souls.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his donkey, beside;
a man walking with his donkey:
so his fallen mates could ride.
A man leant, (he was weary) ,
on his donkey to stand.
Exhausted with the furies,
on the grey sea and sand.
Such a time spent so easy,
can be a wonder to arrive;
for a man talking to his donkey,
it was good to be alive.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his donkey in tow.
A man walked through shooting galleries,
in this valley of woe.
A man walked with his donkey,
with a sure foot and pace;
a man walking with his donkey,
bravely saved his mates.
On the beaches of Gallipoli,
in the Straits of the Dardenelles.
A man led his stoic donkey,
through blast and bursting shell.
Like the heroes of the ancients,
there are still bards to tell:
how Simpson and his donkey,
made it a little less like hell.
David SmithWhite
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/simpson-and-his-donkey/
