Dedicated To The City Council Of Berkeley, California

The City Council of Berkeley, California recently disgraced itself (I can think of no other more appropriate word) by issuing a diktat in the form of a city council resolution attacking the local US Marine corps recruiters, saying that they were unwelcome in Berkeley and that if they chose to stay they will "do so as uninvited and unwelcome intruders."

The city council also voted 8-1 to allow the odious Code Pink, famous for taunting wounded soldiers at Walter Reed and giving money to our enemies in wartime with a special designated parking space in front of the recruiting office, with encouragement to Code Pink to "impede" Marine recruitment.

That 'encouragement' has led to members of the group chaining themselves to the doors of the recruiting office and deliberately interfering with the Marine's lawful duty in direct violation of federal law.

For those who wish more detail on this story, a number of my blogpals have excellent pieces on it and I recommend you check out what Ms. Bookworm, Greg at Rhymes With Right or Edwonk have to say about it.

For my part, I just thought I'd share an old favorite poem of mine with you - and dedicate to the members of the Berkeley City council and the harridans at Code Pink who besmirch our beloved Republic with their presence:

TOMMY

I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:

O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”; But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,'’ when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'’ when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy how’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;

While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!” But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
But Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

-Rudyard Kipling

(`Tommy' is the generic British name for an infantry soldier, similar to `GI Joe' in the US)