Which Red-Hat humourists, for mystic reasons,
Regarded as our "rest."
For it was home; and when I was not in it,
But in the trenches, it was home indeed;
When mad foes fired at twenty rounds a minute
(Not, I may say, the regulation speed),
For me far more it harboured my Penates;
I missed my animals; I missed my gay teas
With Alf, the centipede.
And I am shocked to think that that same ceiling