They're ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes That litter up the ground, That ruin all the landscape For miles and miles around.
That pock-mark fertile fields of green — That rip the hard French roads, And catch the lumbering trucks at night Agroan beneath their loads.
And some of them are little uns The shrill one-pounders plow — About a meter — edge to edge — But large enough, I trow.
And some of them nigh twice as broad, And rather more straight down, The “77” Boches’ gift, Of dubious renown.
And some of them a dozen feet From rim to ragged rim, And deep enough to hide a horse — A crater, gaunt and grim.
And some of them are yellow-black, Where clings the reek of gas, ( But here we do not pause to gaze, Nor linger as we pass ).
And some of them are water-fouled — Or dried and parched and dun; And some of them are newly turned — Fresh blotches‘ neath the sun.
But all spell red destruction, Blind rage and blinding hate, To them who charge the shell-swept zone Or in the trenches wait.
Should we say “all,” or modify Our statement? Any fool Knows that exceptions always rise To prove an iron-clad rule.
And so in this case we can name Some shell-holes we have met, The thought of whose engulfing sides Clings in our memory yet.
They were the holes we rolled into — When iron or bullet struck — Cursing the cursed Prussian, And blessing our blessed luck.
Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole, Wherein we helpless lay, A wondrous couch of velvet Ye seemed to us that day.
Our blood it stained your cushions A deep and richer red, As shrieking messengers of death Sped harmless overhead.
Swept whining in their blood-lust, Hell's music, bleak and grim, Splitting in rage the edges Of your all-protecting rim.
Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes, In vales of grass and wheat — On hillside and in forest, In road and village street —
Your toll of suffering and death Is flashed to East and West — But tell they of the wounded Ye've sheltered in your breast?
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