Classic Poem

I fancy it's not arf my chance
To go on plodding 'neath my pack,
Parading like a snail through France,
My house upon my bloomin' back.

My wants are few, but what I need
Ain't not so much of bully stew,
Nor biscuits, that's a mongrel's feed,
But, matey, just 'twixt me and you—

When winks the early evening star,
And shadows o'er the trenches come—
I wish the sergeants brought a jar,
And issued double tots of rum.