REVENTLOW RUMINATES.
I have no wounds to show; the cannon's thunder
Does not impair my rest. It's just as well,
For, though I dote on blood, and thoughts of plunder
Act on my jaded spirit like a spell,
I could not but regard it as a blunder
If Prussia's foremost scribe should stop a shell.
So, while I sport the usual iron crosses,
No feats of valour pinned them on my breast,