PARDON

 

God bless Private Tommy Tate,

Late of the Eighth Batallion.

He got shot in the war called Great

But rated less than valiant.

 

Why do we dwell upon this man

Among the countless dead ones?

He went down in a summer dawn

To a hail of English lead ones.

 

Gone deserting, poor young sod,

Got court-martialled for cowardice.

Unarmed boy versus rifle squad

And you wonder who the coward is.

 

They’ve pardoned him now but don’t retract

The fact of his conviction

(Armed Forces 2006 the Act,

Three five nine the section).

 

Tommy Tate, while lost to us,

Would surely be elated

Though the pardon’s posthumous

And so a bit belated.

 

The guns already had his wits

And left his head for empty –

Eighteen months of fighting Fritz

And still a year off twenty.

 

God bless us all in the great UK

For thriving as a nation.

God bless the liberal latterday

For seeing extenuation,

 

And spare us from a modern rage

For predecessors’ errors

Or judging by the present age

The past pursuit of justice.

 

So why am I sticking with this case,

You’ve every right to wonder.

When all is said and done it was

Just one among three hundred.

 

I have an interest in his fate

I’d not anticipated.

It turns out me and Tommy Tate

Are distantly related.

 

His brother’s great great grandson lives

A couple of streets away.

He’s known to shag whatever moves

And he’s always been that way.

 

I’m softer line than I should be

On most illicit kisses.

The only trouble is, you see,

My sister is his missus.

 

He bears the name of Tommy Tate

Which came down from his fathers

And now he brags that his great great

Great uncle was a martyr.

 

I’ve heard him in the Rose and Crown

And I’ve seen what he’s doing.

I know where he goes in town

And I know who he’s screwing.

 

I know more than my sister Val,

I know how much she’s hurting.

I’d say his actions carry all

The hallmarks of deserting.

 

Goodwill to brothers every one,

Prosperity and more, sir.

The rules, however, are silent on

The case of brothers-in-law, sir.

 

Oh I could wish my will reversed

And so exonerate him

And free me from what I rehearse

To Tommy-effing-Tate him.

 

I find I have these lingering doubts

About our legal system,

Plus all that Buddhist gunk about

The world not really existing.

 

Yes, peace and joy and lots of the stuff

And just desserts for all-o.

Most nights I’m thinking that’s enough

And hovering in the hall-o.

 

We’re Englishmen, we know that codes

Are there for the transgressing,

That boundaries are no more than roads

And lines are for the crossing.

 

So when he’s midnight flitting

Through the shifty no-man’s gardens

I’ll do what’s only fitting

And I’ll give him beg-your-pardon.