Through Lewis Gun, five nine hail
I ran, betwixt my legs my tail.
All of my nine lives gone, I pale.
Shelled chalk white the land was spent.
Fissures where the earth was rent.
Displaced moles toward the surface went,
As goafer holes upon the course in Kent.
Remove no clout until May is out.
Beneath wallowing mud where those with snout
Fair better than scared boys, to parents recount,
A scared boy reeling, a frightful account.
Drape o'er his casket a laurel of yew.
Pass to Valhalla where surely he's due
Mead in great quantity, mirth and meat too,
No less deserved to extol your virtues.
Still a swaddling babe, robed pink and light teal.
I ran my hard finger, how soft your skin feels,
I suppose you don't think much from yon Flanders fields.
For his sacrifice; will the Hun yield?
Simple soldier sodden, soil subterfuge.
Mound Masks massing missiles, crawl to craters huge.
Bullets, bombs, Britons, Bosch, salvos of shellfire in fugue.
Drafted, dismal, despondent, dirty and safe beneath deluge.
Dullard sailors musing portside strain for the further shore
Where marched kith and younger kin towards that dreaded war .
Bombs all day, of killing boys do the Germans never bore?
Not a chance for a Christmas win, as sworn in days of yore.
