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
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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