Who stuff their homes with memories of dread;
The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumber
With Pickelhaubes and delight to slumber
With heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed.
Not I, the bard. When delicately suited
I move again amid the mufti swarms,
Since trophies from the Front may be disputed,
I'll flaunt the only spoils that I have looted,
My little library of Army forms.
EVOE.