Poppies
By J. Eugene Chrisman
Poppies?
Not for me, buddy!
Buds o’ Hell I’d call ’em,
Plain red hell—they—
They remind me——
And folks plant ’em around
Gardens—huh!
Says one old dame to me,
“Don’t they bring back,” says she,
“The poppied fields of Flanders?”
“Poppied fields of—” ain’t that a heluva—
But who wants ’em brung back—huh?
Say, buddy,
If she’d seen poppies
Like I’ve seen ’em—millions—acres—
Scattered through the wheat-fields,
Red—and gettin’ redder—mostly poppies—
Yeah—mostly!
Slim—my buddy—old scout
Slept under the same handkerchief,
Me ’n’ Slim—clean through from the word go!
I’m liable to forgit—ain’t I—
Day we kicked off west o’ Château-Thierry
Down the valley—
Poppies—say,
You couldn’t rest for poppies.
Then the Jerries cut loose
Machine-gun fire—reg’lar sickle.
Poppy leaves—bits o’ red
Flickin’ and flutterin’ in the wind,
Mowed ’em, buddy—and us—I’ll tell the world!
Got old Slim—got him right!
Down in the poppies he goes—kickin’—clawin’!
Don’t talk poppies to me—
Skunk cabbage first—compree?
If you’d seen old Slim—
Boy, he died wallerin’ in poppies!
Poppies—
Hell!
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