Invasion Exercise on the Poultry Farm

Softly croons the radiogram, loudly hoot the owls,

Judy gives the door a slam and goes to feed the fowls.

Marty rolls a Craven A around her ruby lips

And runs her yellow fingers down her corduroyded hips,

Shuts her mouth and screws her eyes and puffs her fag alight

And hears some most peculiar cries that echo through the night.

Ting-a-ling the telephone, to-whit to-whoo the owls,

Judy, Judy, Judy girl, and have you fed the fowls?

No answer as the poultry gate is swinging there ajar.

Boom the bombers overhead, between the clouds a star,

And just outside, among the arks, in a shadowy sheltered place

Lie Judy and a paratroop in horrible embrace.

Ting-a-ling the telephone. “Yes, this is Marty Hayne.”

“Have you seen a paratroop come walking down your lane?

He may be on your premises, he may be somewhere near,

And if he is report the fact to Major Maxton-Weir.”

Marty moves in dread towards the window—standing there

Draws the curtain—sees the guilty movement of the pair.1

White with rage and lined with age but strong and sturdy still

Marty now co-ordinates her passions and her will,

She will teach that Judy girl to trifle with the heart

And go and kiss a paratroop like any common tart.

She switches up the radiogram and covered by the blare

She goes and gets a riding whip and whirls it in the air,

She fetches down a length of rope and rushes, breathing hard

To let the couple have it for embracing in the yard.

Crack! the pair are paralysed. Click! they cannot stir.

Zip! she’s trussed the paratroop. There’s no embracing her.

“Hullo, hullo, hullo, hullo … Major Maxton-Weir?

I’ve trussed your missing paratroop. He’s waiting for you here.”