The poem
And so when he reached my bed The General made a stand: "My brave young fellow," he said, "I would shake your hand."
So I lifted my arm, the right, With never a hand at all; Only a stump, a sight Fit to appal.
"Well, well. Now that's too bad! That's sorrowful luck," he said; "But there! You give me, my lad, The left instead."
So from under the blanket's rim I raised and showed him the other, A snag as ugly and grim As its ugly brother.
He looked at each jagged wrist; He looked, but he did not speak; And then he bent down and kissed Me on either cheek.
You wonder now I don't mind I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . They tell me (you know I'm blind) 'Twas Grand-Père Joffre.