Just the same old dear old home-folks that we knew before the war.
And I’m hoping they’ll be looking for the boy that used to be,
Not a hero with a halo for the crowd to come and see.
Oh! I’ve snarled to read the phrases that the writers coined for us—
“Deathless heroes—lasting glory,” and the other foolish fuss;
For we’re simple sinful soldiers, and we’re often rude and rough,
And our characters ain’t altered since we donned the khaki stuff.
(“Smithy” terms this “the outpourin’s of an overburdened soul,”
But I’d like to stuff a blanket in that long-offendin’ hole.)
As I gaze on Bill, me cobber,[25] sure I smile a little smile,