holdin' what he'd got.
Me wild, a rat hole in me lung, but in me
mauley, too,
A bull-nosed brick with whiskers where no
whiskers ever grew.

There's nothin' doin' now. I wear me blan-
kets like a toff.
The way this fat nurse pets me, strewth, it's
well to be so sick,
A-dreamin' of our contract 'n' the way we
pulled it off.
I reckon Haig is phonin' Hughes: "Hullo,
there, Billy. Quick--
A dozen of the pushes and a thousan' tons
of brick!"



MUD.

THIS war's a waste of slurry, and its at-
mosphere is mud,
All is bog from here to sunset. Wadin'
through
We're the victims of a thicker sort of universal
flood,
With discomforts that old Noah never knew.

We have dubbed our trench The Cecil.