Well ol’ Cap’n Connor
Ran straight into no-mans,
As the shell-shook do so often tend.
He started screamin’ and wailin’
Something ’bout honor and England.
And in that flooded field of Flanders,
We witnessed either a miracle,
Or just dumb luck.
Though from the trenches, we were merely bystanders,
That ol’ British bastard
Made it halfway through the muck.
That was 12 days ago, on the 6th of October
And still the only thing worth weaving in
To this poem I’ve entitled:
“A Sober Soldier
(Who Would Take a Lifetime of Trenchfoot For a Teacup of Gin)”.