In bitter jealousy, betray my shirt?
What boots it to lament? The shirt is gone.
It was not meant for such an one as I,
A plain rough gunner with one only pip.
No doubt 'twas destined for some lofty soul
Who in a deck-chair lolls, and marks the map
And says, "Push here," while I and all my kind
Scrabble and slaughter in the appointed slough.
But I, presumptuous, wore it, till the gods
Called for my laundry with a thunderbolt.