The Camp*

Every year in August, rain or shine,

the neo-nazis pack their family cars

with tents and tins of beans and German wine,

pj’s, suncream, tambourines, guitars,  

and head off to a field in Derbyshire.

Mugs of hot tea brewed on open fires;

dozing under canvas, breakfast rashers,

a good sing-song before the kiddies tire.  

The last thing you’d expect in such a camp

would be funny business. A bit of an upset.

But this year, more than sunburnt heads or damp,

A strange to-do the campers won’t forget – 

for on the Sunday morning, rising early,

a family of nazis from Broadstairs

(Baz, his young son Hermann and wife Shirley)

find their trousers missing. All three pairs.  

And stumbling from their tent into the sunlight

they see people everywhere in boots and vests,

searching dewy corners of the campsite

without their trousers on. Half-undressed.  

Some troublemaker (probably a red!)’s

obviously snuck in after dark

and with the master race tucked up in bed

has half-inched all their trousers for a lark. 

Of course, the organisers are displeased

as strideless they stride forth (or hide in tents)

for stormtroopers look daft with knobbly knees

and their naked lowers sour the whole event. 

Some disgruntled campers go home early;

but crying ‘no surrender!’ some do not –

they stay for Sunday’s barn dance and rally,

do their goosepimpled goosestep sans-culotte. 

And later, pantaloonless bottom-feeders

applaud Herr Kommandant’s half-hearted rant –

but for all his stirring speech, their party leader

doesn’t look the part without his pants. 

***

In a garden up behind the village houses

war veteran and pensioner Freddy Miles

tends his fire of rubbish, leaves and trousers

then looks away, salutes the past, and smiles.