I’m posting this a little late.
This is one of my favorites. It’s from the World War II era, a Royal Air Force flying crew’s lament about flying long patrols over the ocean in bad weather in search of German submarines. I found it in The War in the Air: The Royal Air Force in World War II, a wonderful collection of narratives (and a few poems) edited by Gavin Lyall. The author is unknown.
We had been flying all day long at a hundred effing feet,
The weather effing awful, effing rain and effing sleet.
The compass it was swinging effing South and effing North
But we made an effing landfall at the Firth of effing Forth.
Chorus: Ain’t the Air Force effing awful?
Ain’t the Air Force effing awful?
We made an effing landfall at the Firth of effing Forth.
We joined the effing Air Force ‘cause we thought it effing right,
But don’t care if we effing fly or if we effing fight.
But what we do object to are those effing Ops Room twats
Who sit there sewing stripes on at the rate of effing knots.
The sentiment of this poem will be appreciated by anyone who flew in challenging weather conditions in combat while the men who scheduled the missions sat safe in comfortable conditions receiving promotions for doing less hazardous work.