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He dropped, -
more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod,
heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his
feet;
- Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
-
Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the
blasted trench at which he stared.
'I'll do 'em in,'
he whined, 'if this hand's spared,
I'll murder them,
I will.'
A low voice said,
'It's Blighty,
p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
Dreaming of
all the valiant, that aren't dead:
Bold uncles,
smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife,
getting her fun
In some new home, improved
materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him;
nor the Hun.'
We sent him down at last, out of
the way.
Unwounded; - stout lad, too, before that
strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, 'Not
half!'
Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied
laugh:
'That scum you sent last night soon died.
Hooray!'
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