Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derbys Scheme). I died in hell
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:
For, though low down upon the list, Im there;
In proud and glorious memory ... thats my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that hes never guessed.
Once I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?
