And eaten ration bully-beef—with flies on;
And sheltered gratefully in many a hovel,
What time we sang of guns and gore and trenches—
Instead of oysters, tango-teas and wenches.
For times have changed since we wrote “One of Us”:
Et nos mutamus—more or less—in illis.
Muse finds herself in urbe somewhat rus;
And I—if I disport with Amaryllis—
Where once my motor flashed, prefer a ’bus;
And shuddering note how vast the supper-bill is;