Wednesday, 9 September 2015

Poetry Thursday 177 - BP

As a nation we British quite often get the hero worship thing wrong. I've visited Bletchley Park where a collection of people with brilliant minds were thrown together to crack codes and ciphers produced on an Enigma machine. Alan Turing and Gordon Welchman left legacies that have served many nations to this day.
Yet we pilloried both men for what were the wrong reasons.
The poem below was written by one of the girls who worked at Bletchley and is a fine example of how poetry can relate the emotions in a situation in quite a short piece.



Bumph Palace 

I think that I shall never see
a sight so curious as BP.
This place called up at war's behest 
And peopled by the strangely dressed;
Yet what they do they cannot say,
North ever will 'til Judgement Day.
For six long years we have been there,
subject to local scorn and stare.
We came by transport and by train,
the dull and brilliantly insane.
What shall we do, where shall we be,
When God at last redunds BP?
The Air force types who never fly,
soldiers who neither do nor die,
landlubber Navy, beards complete
Civilians slim, long-haired, effete;
Yet what they did they never knew,
and if they did it wasn't true.
If i should die think only this of me...
I served my country at BP.
and should my son ask: 'What did you do
In the atomic World War Two?'
God only knows and He won't tell
For after all BP was hell.
'Bobby' Hooper (nee Osborne), Hollerith Operator.

God Bless