Over the Top!
Ten more minutes! Say yer prayers,
Read yer Bibles,—pass the rum!
Ten more minutes! Strike me dumb,
'Ow they creeps on unawares
Those blooming minutes. Nine. It's queer,
I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear!
Eight. It's like as if a frog
Waddled round in your inside
Cold as ice-blocks, straddled wide,
Tired o' waiting.—Where's the grog?
Seven. I'll play you pitch and toss.
Six. I wins, and tails your loss.
'Nother minute sprinted by
'Fore I knowed it; only four
(Break 'em into seconds) more
'Twixt us and Eternity!
Every word I've ever said
Seems a-shouting in my head!
Three. Larst night a little star
Fairly shook up in the sky,
Frightened by the lullaby
Rattled by the dogs of war.
Funny thing—that star all white
Saw old Blighty too, larst night!
Two. I ain't ashamed o' prayers,
They're only wishes sent ter God,
Bits o' plants from bloody sod
Trailing up His golden stairs.
Ninety seconds. Well, who cares!—
One. . . . . . .
. . . . . .
No pipe, no blare, no drum—
Over the Top!—to Kingdom Come
To His Dear Memory
(April 14th, 1917)
Beneath the humid skies
Where green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned trees
Sway in the fevered breeze,
My Brother lies.