A tiny green glass pig to comfort him.
These are the men who've learned to laugh at pain,
And if their lips have quivered when they spoke
They've said brave things or tried to make a joke;
Said it's not worse than trenches in the rain,
Or pools of water on a chalky plain,
Or bitter cold from which you stiffly woke,
Or deep wet mud that left you hardly sane,
Or the tense wait for "Fritz's master stroke."
You seldom hear them talk of their "bad luck,"