The ballad of the feathered front

In the year of nineteen thirty-two, when soldiers yearned for glory past,
Their khaki creased with Empire’s pride, their bullets forged to last,
They faced no foe from foreign land, no sabres from the east,
But mobs of emus, flightless fiends! A most unholy beast.

The crops were crushed by drought and debt, the farmers cried to King,
For widows danced with hunger’s breath, and hope had grown a wing.
The Parliament, with stiff moustache, declared a cunning plan:
“To war!” they cried, “against the birds, we’ll tame this feathered clan!”

Sir George Pearce, a dandy sort, in pinstripes not in mail,
Announced a military thrust that could not, must not fail.
Two Lewis guns with belts of brass, and Major Meredith,
Were sent to Western Australia’s fields to fight the winged myth.

Now nature does not care for war, nor dignify command,
And emus marched with mockery across the no-man’s land.
They ran in flocks like Spartan troops, five hundred birds abreast,
Each beak a sneer, each wing a jeer, each feather battle-dressed.

At Campion the troops first fired, with gallant rapid rate,
But emus swerved like desert winds and left them to their fate.
The gun jammed up! The birds looked back, as if to give a grin,
A thousand emus mocking men who failed to scratch their skin.

A second try! Ambush was set with rifle primed and ready,
But emus darted, swift, sardonic, agile, strong and steady.
One trooper swore they “wore chainmail,” enchanted by some spell,
Another wrote, “These feathery blokes, they run like bloody hell.”

O Britain! If your lords had known the Empire’s steely sons
Were now repelled not by the Hun, but birds outpacing guns,
They might have cancelled knighthoods fast and seized the War Office,
For no man fears machinegun crews who lose to feathered service.

A thousand rounds were fired off, six birds fell to the grave,
Each one a casualty of pride, not cause, nor oath, nor knave.
A farmer begged, “Please try again!” and so the gunners did,
They mounted trucks to chase the flocks, but emus ran and hid.

The bouncing trucks were made for war, not chasing native game,
The Lewis gun could not be aimed; the gunner cursed in shame.
It fired wide, it fired wild, it fired at the air,
While emus laughed in emu-speak, and vanished without care.

Major Meredith, poor soul, recorded what he could,
His orders firm, his rifles sharp, his conscience, understood.
“They’re faster than our trucks,” he wrote, “more agile than the men,
They dodge in flocks like mounted troops, they charge and charge again!”

He praised the birds, resilient, proud, and noble in retreat,
“They’re far too smart for bullets, sir, and twice as quick on feet.”
One emu took a bullet, true, but staggered not nor fell,
And led a charge of dozens more who ran through lead and hell.

“Ten thousand birds still roam the West,” the major’s final line,
“I must report, our guns, our pride, have failed this grand design.”
The army slunk away in shame, their heads hung low and dry,
While emus danced upon the wheat beneath the baking sky.

Back east the senators convened, with monocle and gin,
To ponder how the nation’s troops had failed to beat their foe within.
One asked, “Should we try aeroplanes?” another, “Bring in tanks!”
While Pearce just blushed and cleared his throat, and offered measured thanks.

“They proved too quick,” he gravely said, “and organized with skill,”
“These birds employ the flanking move with more than human will.”
A senator, with jowls like ham, proposed they call it peace,
He tabled one last motion then, the ‘Emu War’ to cease.

They filed the war in archives deep, and history turned its gaze,
Yet soldiers knew, and farmers wept, for shame outlived the days.
No medal bore an emu’s plume, no statue caught their shape,
Yet whispered oaths of riflemen still tremble at their drape.

So what remains of glory now, when grain is turned to dust?
The emus reign, unchallenged kings, of folly, steel, and rust.
They strutted o’er the battlefield where soldiers once had stood,
And etched their hieroglyphs in sand with footprints bold and crude.

Not all who stand seek conquest, some just seek to endure,
And some bear feathers peacefully, not uniforms of war.
The emus killed no man in war, nor sacked a single town,
But felled the pride of sabre-men and brought an army down.

They wrote no truce, they held no vote, they forged no sly accord,
They simply ran, and running, showed the madness of the sword.
The lesson stands: you cannot kill an enemy who mocks
The very terms of warfare with a gait that slyly shocks.

Australia, land of Anzac pride, to King and Empire sworn,
You sent your finest rifles west to war with birds of scorn.
Yet in that laughable campaign, a deeper truth unfurled,
To show how pride makes war on peace, and folly rules the world.

The emus taught, without a word, the paradox of might:
That power breeds its own defeat, when deaf to truth or right.
They did not fight to make a point, nor die for king or creed,
They simply ran, and in that run, exposed our baseless need.

Let other wars be stained with blood, let ours be stained with mirth,
For shame may be a fertile seed that births a wiser Earth.
And though no treaty bears their name, nor anthem marks their flight,
The Emu War, absurdly fought, made farce of human might.