I've had some mighty narrow calls — Some close shaves not a few, But one of the fairly closest I'll now narrate to you.
‘ Twas midnight — hush! the plot grows thick — Crowd close, and hold your breath — ‘ Twas midnight — and the slum-cart came Upon its round of death.
( It is n't really that the slum Was quite as bad as that, But the playful Boche so often dropped A shell where it was at. )
‘ Twas midnight — and our appetites Were whetted large and keen, As trench feed, once a day, must leave An interval between.
And so we sought the buzzy-cart, “Mess-kits alert” and found It standing in a quiet spot Where never came a sound —
Excepting that of bursting shells Across the field a way, ( But as I said before, the Boche Is very given to play ).
All innocent and hungry-like And empty to the core, I came upon that buzzy-cart, With never thought of war.
More calm, beneficent and mild — More free from things of strife — I promise you I never was In all my mortal life.
The air was fair, the stars were out, The mocking-bird sang clear; The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed, And food was very near.
When suddenly the ground gave way — It seemed a mile or more — And the whole adjacent landscape leapt To heaven with a soar.
Earth, rocks and stars commingling In a swirling mass arose, Where I, recumbent in the hole, Assumed an easy pose.
And when I found that I was there — Both arms, both legs, and head, I picked me up and cogitated Why I was n't dead.
For information looked I‘ round North, south and east and west — But the good platoon had up and cleared Some several feet with zest.
( And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing, For me to understand, Was that when I got up I had My mess-kit in my hand. )
And there I stood and gazed me down Upon the hole and mud, And found I was alive because That blamed shell was a “dud.”
A dud's a shell that fails to burst — Whose crater's microscopic — And as I'd just sunk down in it, My Fates were philanthropic —
For had the bally thing gone off — Instead of sitting jake — You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts With a hair-comb or a rake.
You'd ne'er have found your humble slave — For, sprinkled east and west, My sad remains would scarce have bulged The pocket of your vest.
A finger in Benares — A toe in Timbuctoo — And on the Mountains of the Moon A portion of my shoe.
An eye on Kinchinjanga — To greet the snow-peaked morn; An ear at Cape Lopatka, And my dog-tag at the Horn.
Cookies on Poetry Cove