So, ol’ Cap’n Connor
Ran straight into no-mans,
As the shell-shook do so often tend.
Bayonet fixed!
He started screamin’ and wailin’
Something ’bout honor and England.

And it was in that flooded field of Flanders
That we witnessed either a miracle
Or just dumb luck.
And though from the trenches
We were mere bystanders,
That ol’ British bastard
Somehow
Made it halfway through the muck.

Well, that was twelve days ago – on the 6th of October –
And still the only thing worth weaving in
To this poem I’ve (ironically) entitled:
“A Sober Soldier
(Who Would Take a Lifetime of Trench-foot For a Teacup of Gin)”.

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