This morning I was talking to my brother in law about my time in the army. It’s not a thing I do very often. When I do, I recall all sorts of odd facts that have been filed in the back of my memory bank.
This afternoon I saw a youth spitting on the pavement, a filthy, dirty habit I abhor, BUT, it did remind me of something I witnessed as a very young trainee soldier, at the age of 16 or 17.
A couple of lads were marching (we were not allowed to walk!) past the drill square (you stepped onto it at your peril, unless undertaking drill practice). One of them spat onto the square.
Immediately there was a terrifying roar of the Regimental Sergeant Major’s stentorian voice.
“You there! PICK THAT UP.”
And he did!
From that idle thought this poem popped
My mouth is full of spittle and I care no jot or tittle
I am going to spit it out upon the floor.
As my juices flow I find my spittle starts to grow
and, as time passes there is more and more
I know not why it is but my spittle starts to fizz
It is spilling from my mouth and from my nose
So beware if passing by for I’ll spit right in your eye
as I’m covered all in spit from head to toes!