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 blesséd 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?
FOOD.
We’ve eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry’s and the Ritz—
The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon
too.
We’ve sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and
Meurice,
Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never
knew.