Five o‘ clock; the shadows fall In mist and gloom and cloud; And No Man's Land is a sullen waste, Wrapped in a sodden shroud;
And the click of Big Mac's moving foot Is a dangerous noise and loud. Ten o'clock; the wind moans low — Each tree is a phantom gray:
And the wired posts are silent ghosts That move with a drunken sway; ( But never a gleam in No Man's Land Till the dawn of another day ).
Twelve o‘ clock; the heavens yawn Like the mouth of a chasm deep; And see — that is n't the fence out there — It's a Boche — and he stoops to creep —
I'll take a shot — oh hell, a post — ( Oh God, for a wink o’ sleep ). Two o‘ clock; the cold wet fog Bears down in dripping banks:
Ah, here they come — the dirty hounds — In swinging, serried ranks! Why do n't the automatics start?... Or do my eyes play pranks?
It does n't seem a column now, But just two sneaking there: And one is climbing over, While the other of the pair
Is clipping at the wires With exasperating care. ( I'm sober as a gray-beard judge I'm calm as the morning dew —
I'm wide awake and I'll stake My eyes with the best of you; But I can n't explain just how or why Posts do the things they do. )
Three o'clock; they're on the move — Well, let the beggars come.... A crash — a hush — a spiral shriek — And a noise like a big bass drum —
( I hope that Hun shot has n't found Our kitchen and the slum ). Five o'clock; the first faint streak Of a leaden dawn lifts gray;
And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts That swagger, click and sway, And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin, In a most unpleasant way.
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