ramblings and things

924,410 poems read

Courier Run

A VW Beetle
An unloaded forty five
Sitting in the car for
An eerie type of drive.
A briefcase of secrets
Chained to the wrist
Memorized instructions
From an unwritten list.

In the event of being stopped
Just pop five rounds in:
The only trouble was
They were sealed in a tin.
Perhaps if we were stopped
We'd just have to say
I' m nearly armed Mr Comrade
So please just go away.

I always had the feeling
That they instead
Would fetch us a clout
To the side of the head.
In those far off days
No mobile phone
Just me and my driver
There on our own.

It never happened of course.
To the offices of the yanks
Who would empty our case
Without any words of thanks.
They treated us
With such disrespect
You'd think we'd been chosen as
 “Prospective enemy the next.”

Case of new secrets
Chained to the wrist,
Memorised directions
From that unwritten list.
Back In the Beetle,
Unloaded forty five,
In the passenger seat
For another eerie drive.


Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Courier Run