Friday, January 7, 2011




One retreats from the field of battle; Napoleon's doing it here.
His army is defeated; that is very clear.
He's been beaten by the Russians and the bitter winter snow;
Now he must stagger back to France, retreating from his foe. 

So is family-life a battle-field, from which parents must retreat?
This 'retreat' is for parents, when they admit defeat!
It certainly looks attractive, and quite romantic too;
Parents shut themselves in there when they don't know what to do!

When the children are running wild, and neither one will yield,
Then it's time for the Generals to quit the battle-field!
But what a curious word it is! Once it signified death and war!
Yet now it suggests serenity behind a bedroom door!


Isn't it strange how enemies seem to lose their stigma!
The changing face of prejudice is rather an enigma.
I'm British, and the Germans were once seen as Dirty Dogs,
Though we didn't like the French too much; we labelled them as 'Frogs'!
Yet now we're all united, apart from some minor spats,
The currencies are intertwined! Prime Ministers have chats!
There was once a dastardly devil we felt deserved his end!
Yet now we feel, had we known him, he could have been a friend!
Manfred was an eldest son, a German aristocrat.
The Richthofen's had vast lands, the family purse was fat.
His Uncle Alexander, a hunter, was admired,
And Manfred's imagination by the hunting game was fired.
At the Military Academy he didn't really shine,
Academically he was so-so; athletically he was fine.
He joined the Cavalry at first, seeing life from a horse's back,
But the fighting in the First World War took the form of a tank attack.
The Cavalry was disbanded, Manfred was relegated
To the Signal Corps, which, without a doubt, he absolutely hated!
He saw the airplanes up above and he knew they'd play a part,
And the urge to fly an airplane was embedded in his heart.
When first he qualified to fly it wasn't on his own
And the need to be a solo pilot must have grown and grown.
He knew he could get up closer to the hated enemy
If he flew a small plane on his own; he'd feel more in charge and free.
Thus began the flying career for which he had been bred,
And it was now his solo craft was painted a brilliant red.
Since he was heir to a Baron, the 'Red Baron' he was named,
And this is when so very many enemy scalps were claimed.
Soon he had 52 victories, 52 planes destroyed!
And the people back in Germany were utterly overjoyed.
Then there came the fateful day when a bullet grazed his eye;
He had cranial injuries; people thought that he might die.
But he now had 80 victories, and although his head kept aching,
He persisted in many daredevil acts, impossible risk-taking.
In the end it was from the ground that bullet-fire caused his death;
Australian soldiers shot at him and he took his final breath.
No doubt he was foolhardy; and an egotist, to boot,
But what a tremendous hero! To fly, to aim, to shoot!
He will always be remembered for his wonderful bravery .
'Red Baron' is a name that chimes throughout all history.


Calico Crazy said...

Neat bits of history, thanks for linking up to WWR. ~ Calico Contemplations

Grandma's Goulash said...

Strange how alliances shift. I remember sitting under my desk during our school's air raid drills. I grew up learning to fear Russians. Suddenly our countries were friendly again, but it took a lot longer to lose that fear.

As for retreating from the kids? Just send them to Grandma's. :)