If you're sneaking around on a night patrol,
Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole,
And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul —
It's a trip-wire.
If you think there is n't a thing around
Except the desolate, shell-torn ground,
And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound —
It's a trip-wire.
If you know a murmur would give the alarm,
And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm,
And then you go falling all over the farm —
It's a trip-wire.
If it's cold and it's rainy and everything's mud,
And you're groping your way through a nice little flood,
And you stand on your head with an elegant thud —
It's a trip-wire.
When silence is golden ( for “news” is the quest ),
And you're returning and stepping your best,
And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest —
It's a trip-wire.