Classic Poem

Patting goodbye, his father said, “My lad,
You'll always show the Hun a brave man's face.
I'd rather you were dead than in disgrace.
We're proud to see you going, Jim, we're glad.”

His mother whimpered, “Jim, my boy, I frets
Until ye git a nice safe wound, I do.”
His sisters said: why couldn't they go too.
His brothers said they'd send him cigarettes.

For three years, once a week, they wrote the same,
Adding, “We hope you use the Y.M. Hut.”
And once a day came twenty Navy Cut.
And once an hour a bullet missed its aim.

And misses teased the hunger of his brain.
His eyes grew scorched with wincing, and his hand
Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, like sand
From sandbags that have stood three years of rain.