That’s the stuff to get your liver, that’s the
     acid on a man,
   For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow
     throngh. 
You have got the thought to comfort you that
     life is but a span,
   If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight over
     you.

We got back again at daybreak.  Cobber
     ducked to doss and said,
   From the soft, embracing mud:  “No more
     I’ll roam. 
“Oh, thank Heaven, blokes,” he murmured,
     “for the comforts of a bed! 
   Gorstruth, but ain’t it good to have a
     home!”

MICKIE MOLLYNOO.

A mile-long panto dragon ploddin’
     ’opeless all the day,
Stuffed out with kits, ‘n’ spiked with rifles,
     steamin’ in its sweat,
A-heavin’ down the misty road, club-footed
     through the clay,
By waggons bogged ‘n’ buckin’ guns,
     the wildest welter yet,
Like ‘arf creation’s tenants shiftin’ early
     in the wet.

We’re marchin’ out, we dunno where, to meet
     we dunno who;
But here we lights eventual, ‘n’ sighs ‘n’
     slips the kit,
‘N’, ’struth, the first to take us on is Mickie
     Mollynoo! 
A copper of the Port he was, when ’istory
     was writ. 
Sez I :  “We’re sent to face the foe, ‘n’, selp
     me, this is It.”

A shine John.  Hop is Mollynoo.  A mix-up
     with the push
Is all his joy.  One evenin’ when his
     baton’s flyin’ free
I takes a baby brick, ‘n’ drives it hard agin
     the cush,
‘N’ Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the
     world to see,
But not afore indelible he’s put his mark on
     me.

I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me
     lug
Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them
     ’appy, careless days. 
He’s sargin’ now, a vet’ran; I’m a newchum
     and a mug,
‘N’ when he sorter fixes me there’s some-
     thin’ in his gaze
That’s pensive like.  “Move on!” sez he. 
     “Keep movin’ there!” he says.

If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous
     and crool,
The mills in Butcher’s Alley when the
     watch is on the wine,
Those nights he raided Wylie’s shed to break
     the two-up school,
I takes a screw at Molly.  With a grin that
     ain’t divine
He’s toyin’ with a scar of old I reckernise
     as mine.

‘N’ so I’m layin’ for it, ‘n’ I’m wonderin’ how
     ‘n’ what. 
We’re signed on with the Germans, ‘n’ there
     ain’t a vacant date;
But sure it’s comin’ to me, ‘n’ it’s comin’ ’ard
     ‘n’ ’ot. 
Me lurk is patient waitin’, but I’m trim-
     min’ while I wait
A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin’
     tatertate.